


Always Said I'd Save You, I Just Didn't Know it Would Have to be From Yourself

by cantheysuffer



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Biting, Breathplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dom Bucky Barnes, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Sub Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantheysuffer/pseuds/cantheysuffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which neither Steve nor Bucky are alright after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier and both tries to protect the other, in their own way. </p><p>-</p><p>“You do know that I'm not Bucky,” the Asset says. </p><p>Steve's jaw tenses. His eyes flick to the side. </p><p>“Even if I am, just say I am,” the Asset continues, hand sliding back to reach for his gun out of habit. If Steve notices, he doesn't let on. Doesn't show any sign of fear, let alone mistrust. “You're not getting him back. No matter what you let me do to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter fits nicely with [the Winter Soldier's theme music](http://notyourtargetaudience.tumblr.com/post/84055123308/rubydreamer-winter-soldier-is-this-crazy) played on loop.

He comes back because he cannot stay away. Because there is nothing else. Because the man on the bridge is still his mission. Because Captain America has information. Because he, the Asset, might be someone named Bucky. The possibilities block out his mind like the moon does to the sun during an eclipse. He is left in darkness and therein lies no peace. 

The Asset scales the apartment on the opposite side of the street. From the roof he can see into his mission's living room. He can see enough of the bedroom to know when the light is on. To know when it is occupied and the occupant is sleeping. 

He only comes at night, when the whole world has gone to bed. He watches for the light. On and the man is in his bedroom. Off and he is still in there, now drifting to sleep. 

He watches to keep the other man under surveillance. The Winter Soldier is studying Captain America's habits to plan out his eventual attack. Someone named Bucky would have wanted to keep Steve safe. Each possibility comes with a different name and offers up the remnants of someone else, both for him and this person that he is hunting. The possibilities coagulate in the Asset's mind. None of them. All of them at once. Being delirious with dysphoria is almost like sleep. It's the closest he'll allow himself. 

He taps the man's cellphone. He's done it before, but that was to track a target down and eliminate them. The familiar hacking is precarious without a specified end in sight. It's as if the Asset is leaving himself vulnerable, balancing on the knife point above an open wound. Perhaps that is the point. 

“The line is compromised, Steve,” Natasha Romanoff's careful tone drones over the phone. 

“I don't care,” Captain America says back quickly. “It's Bucky. You said it was Bucky.” As if that should explain everything. 

“I did,” Natasha replies. 

Is that regret in her voice? The Asset can't quite tell, though he's heard a similar tone from some of the people he'd been tasked to eliminate. Sometimes he picked up patterns. Adaptive learning made him more efficient. 

“That must mean he's close,” Captain America says. “Or could he do that from across the country?”

Silence on the other end. 

Revealing what they know about the Asset would be a mistake, unless they're playing their hand for an end he hasn't determined yet. It's unlikely. The target speaks quickly, as if he isn't bothering to think about what he says. As if he really means it. It wouldn't be different if he were playing a role. 

“Why is he letting us know that he's tapped the line?” Captain America says. It goes unspoken that if the Winter Soldier didn't want them to know, they wouldn't. Everyone listening in understands this point. 

“I'm not certain,” Natasha says curtly. 

“Buck?” his mission's voice cracks as he speaks, addresses the Asset directly, even though he has no receiver to speak over. He can only listen in.

“What's going on? Tell me what you want.” Captain America's voice begins to sound like he is pleading. The Asset knows that tone of voice very well. Sometimes he was instructed to not be efficient. Sometimes he was told to prolong elimination. 

“Just tell me what you want and I can give it to you,” his mission whispers into the line. 

The Asset doesn't know. He was hoping that they would tell him. He stops listening in. 

He comes closer, tightening his circles around his target. His actions are the reverberations of a feeling he cannot identify. Is it overconfidence or guile that brings him to the roof of the building Captain America is in? 

He stays there all night and the following day. The Asset has enough supplies to dig in and wait out on the roof like it's a trench. There's something unsatisfactory about the notion. He can't recall expressing preference before and doesn't quite know what to do with this one now that it's surfaced. The thought knocks back and forth like a pinball, setting off a bewildering array of flashy lights and metallic clicks in his brain. 

The next night he secures the top floor. 

There are several spots on the roof, across the street, where snipers could hide. The Asset knows them from his initial observation of his target. He traces the memories of his movements as he skulks in the cleared bedroom of a one room apartment. The curtains on the window are drawn and he is careful not to rustle them as he peers through the transparent cloth. 

Earlier he shoved the bed and dresser across the door, both to barricade the only entrance and make space for the weapons laid out on the floor. There is enough firepower in the room to blow up the building, even though he has no immediate plans to. 

He hoards the weapons with an unusual care. Someone else has always overseen arming the Winter Soldier before. Although he could dispatch a target as easily with a knife lifted from the kitchen cupboard as with a sniper rifle, there is something to be said for the thought that no one will be handing out weapons to him now. These are all that is left of everything before. What should be said is beyond him, but there's something. 

It takes willpower to stand by the lone window and stare out of his little hole. He cannot recall requiring willpower before beginning this mission. Was it strength of will that made him drag his target onto the shore? Or the ghostly remnants of the person he used to be? Surely there is a person under there, under the machine. Each thought piles on to the surmounting litany of firsts. If the pile becomes unstable it will tumble and crush him. Back to the present. Survey the situation. The nest he has crafted is almost satisfactory. The thought slinks along like molasses and is just as sticky. 

Helicopters don't show up. The telltale signs of an assault are nowhere to be found, but the floor below him has been evacuated. The daily movements of civilians pick up a little, like a heart pumping faster in anticipation, and then there is nothing. The heart has stopped. The building is dead. The Asset clears the second highest floor quicker than the first because there is nothing to secure. No one to eliminate.

He clears four floors that night. Though there are plenty of hours of night left, he stops to speculate on the emptiness of the building. His breathing echoes like a terrible force in the hallways. 

They are leading him down. Someone's got a collar on his neck and they are tugging on the leash. 

There is no one out the windows. No snipers and no civilians. The entire street has been abandoned to him. Do they, whoever evacuated the building, expect him to make his way down, walk out the front door, and leave? The possibility gives him a sense of self. An idea to define himself against. No, he will not do that. 

He watches the world outside light up with the rising sun and tracks the darkness for movements when it goes down. The Asset doesn't turn on any of the lights in the building. 

Days move past. Do those turn into weeks? Weeks into months? He knows this pattern from somewhere, though where that somewhere is he can't say. He doesn't ever recall experiencing a full month. Almost, once, but he's too efficient for that. Shaping the century means being around for as much of it as you can. More time in ice than out. Only out when they need him. Does someone need him now? 

Time must be really passing. The thought is novel. 

Before time wore down the faces of those around him, while he's been walled off from the constant ticking of the clock and other regularities like human strength and a life span. 

Does he have a life span? 

Is he mortal? 

Was he something else before? 

Now that there's no one to electrify the thoughts out of his brain, no one to fix him when he's been compromised, questions flood him in a torrent. The walls are breached and he will drown in his own mind, if he doesn't rip it out first. 

He moves on to the floor his mission lives on because he has deemed it safe enough to attempt a breach. Because he wants to know what they will do. Because this was his plan all along. The speculations chafe inside his brain and surely it will begin to bleed under all of the assault it now must put up with. 

His mission is sitting on a couch and staring at the television screen. Captain America's shoulders fractionally tense when the Asset opens the door, but he doesn't turn around. They appear to be the only two people in the building and so it's likely that he's been waiting for him. 

“S-” the Asset begins, but only gets out that single sound. The word dies before anyone can hear the apology he was about to make. Sorry for being late. For keeping you up. For forcing you to be here, alone. He grits his teeth. He feels the absence of the guard they made him clench on when he would sit in the chair.

His mission still hasn't looked away from the television. The Asset could shoot Captain America in the back of the head so that he'd never turn around. He doesn't, if only because there will be plenty of time to later. The Asset scans the room from his place in the doorway. 

He can back out at any moment. He's memorized the floor plan and knows the fastest way to get to the stairwell. If it's blocked he knows which apartments have fire escape stairs. The elevator isn't an option. Too risky. The thoughts fly by, carrying with them a string of assurances. He can back out at any time, should this encounter prove dangerous to him. 

His mission doesn't have anything in his hands and there is nothing within reach of his arms that is a threat. There's a table lamp on the far side of the couch. Could be a hazard, important to account for, but it appears fragile. Limited damage potential.

The Asset walks into the room, turning so that his periphery vision can keep the man on the couch and the apartment door in sight at all times. His back is to the kitchen, where there are surely household objects capable of being used as weapons. 

Captain America tilts his head and glances at the Asset, face immediately softening. “Hey,” his mission says quietly. 

The Asset stares blankly at him, momentarily disarmed, before remembering that he hasn't properly secured the apartment. A rare mistake. 

“Stand up slowly,” the Asset says. 

The other man obeys. “Whatever you want Bucky,” he says.

The name grates on him. Is it possible that someone else wore his face once? James Barnes, from the pictures at the museum, had looked back at him like a mirror, but that doesn't mean that he is him. 

“Hands on your head. Walk towards the hallway,” the Asset demands. 

The Asset forces Captain America to walk around his apartment, hands on his head, while he follows. It would be too reckless to leave him on the couch while he swept the apartment. Anyone could be hiding there. There could be weapons stashed. He wouldn't see if his target left the couch. 

He considers binding Captain America's wrists, but thinks better of touching the other man. The Asset holds his gun drawn and it's a suitable alternative. Safety off. 

He doesn't miss as his mission watches him, face strained, failing not to wince at the state of the Asset's clothing. It's perfectly intact, but the stiff black of his vest gleams with dried blood. The metal arm was initially as red as the star drawn onto his shoulder, but in time it's faded to maroon. The Asset hadn't deemed it an effective use of time to clean himself and so he didn't after securing the top floor. He's never been in charge of such a task before and deemed it unnecessary when he thought about it earlier. Still, it causes the other man to stare at him with very wide and perhaps distraught eyes. 

The Asset finds nothing of immediate interest in the apartment. There's a pair of handcuffs in a black bag at the bottom of a closet, to which his mission blushes marginally upon him finding them, but they're flimsy and they have a safety catch. If used on him, the Asset could get out of them easily. They're more toy than threat. The closet also has a riding crop and blindfold, both flimsy. When the Asset finds Captain America's shield he stashes it at the back of the closet with the other potential weapons. Keeping them together is practical. 

The Asset traces the mouth of his gun between his mission's shoulder blades, guiding them back to the living room with it. “As you were,” he grunts.

Captain America slides back onto the couch and carefully lowers his hands to the cushions. He returns to staring at the television, but out of the corner of his eye he's watching the Asset. Captain America clears his throat, as if to speak, but sound doesn't come out. The uncomfortable wince has returned to his face. 

Now that he's alone with his mission, apartment secured, he can't determine his next course of action. He's seen interrogations before, but what information can this stranger give him? After reading the exhibit on his supposed close relationship with Captain America, if he is James Barnes, which he isn't, the Asset wonders if stranger is an appropriate term for Steve Rogers. 

“Why are you here?” the Asset asks and it makes Steve flinch. 

The Asset nearly flinches himself from thinking of this person as Steve. As the man written about on the wall. As Bucky's friend. Although he is not Bucky, so this should not matter. Except it does. 

He begins to frown and Steve reacts in kind, face bunching up in increasing worry. 

How is this man Captain America, national icon, and likely the person responsible for dismantling Hydra? The Asset cannot find the remnants of the man that should be before him within the one that is. 

Steve Rogers looks utterly vulnerable. Everything about him is a weak point, an exposed liability that he hasn't defended. The Asset is pointing a gun at him and it's the question, not the weapon, that has this man on the brink of tears. 

“Because you are,” Steve says. His voice breaks, but it's not from lack of strength. It takes an impressive amount of strength to look away while a person is pointing a gun at you and wait until they decide if they would like to shoot you or put it down. To let them decide. 

“Why do you think I'm here?” the Asset asks, grunts it out, dark and feral, to cover up the indecisiveness that might bleed into his voice otherwise. 

“I don't know. I thought you'd be gone Buck,” Steve admits, because it is Steve. So many labels the Asset can use to toss between them, make this impenetrable gap, but he has to admit it's Steve. He just doesn't know what that means. 

“I'm glad you're not,” Steve says, turning to look at him and level him with sad eyes. 

“Had to come back. We weren't finished,” the Asset says flatly. The gun feels heavy in his hand from holding it pointed for so long, but he doesn't lower it. There is a sense of security in holding it between him and Steve Rogers. He has control of the situation. He's in control. 

“Hydra doesn't exist anymore. You don't have to finish what you started,” Steve says, and that small edge of pleading is in his voice, but he's mostly calm. Mostly reasonable. He has a very reasonable voice. The Asset can feel himself frowning. 

“If you kill me, there will be no one to report to,” Steve says, breaking the uneasy silence between them. “No one's asking you to do this.” 

The Asset's breathing is a thunderous sound. He doesn't reply. There's nothing to say. Who is he, if not what he was told to do? 

Steve stands up. 

The Asset registers the sound of his own gun after Steve's face crumples into pained shock and he stumbles backwards, falling onto the couch. 

Blood blossoms out of Steve's right pant leg. He hadn't aimed for a lethal blow. He doesn't even remember aiming. 

“Stay where you are,” the Asset warns. 

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, voice still the same, even if his face isn't. “I know I frightened you. Sorry,” he goes on. 

The Asset frowns again, a petulant feature of discomfort. No one has ever apologized to him when he's shot them. He can't recall anyone ever apologizing to him for anything. 

“What do you want Bucky? Tell me,” Steve encourages him. 

“Who's Bucky?” the Asset asks, flat and cold. They've been over this, he's looked into this, but if he keeps asking he might find out something that feels real. 

“My best friend. A good guy. Real good guy,” Steve insists. “You're a good guy Buck. It's just what they did to you. I read a file... I don't know if you know what they did,” Steve shifts on the couch, as if uncomfortable. His face is beginning to pale slightly, likely from the injury. If Steve notices, he doesn't let on. “But they're gone.”

“Did you get rid of them?” the Asset asks. The world around him feels ungrounded. His only sense of centre has been gone for a while, but he's kept moving forward as if it wasn't. 

“Yeah Buck, I did. I got rid of them and they're never coming back. It's going to be okay,” Steve assures him, but this time the pain seeps into his voice. 

How can he know it's going to be okay? Especially with the gun still pointed at him. 

“Look, if we're going to stay here I need to clean this up,” Steve says, raising his right leg. “You need to let me clean this up. The metal limb's a good look on you Bucky,” he laughs, strained, “but I don't think it'd suit me.” 

The Asset is still stuck on the other things Steve was saying. Steve, perhaps the only person alive who knew him before he was the Winter Soldier. If that's to be trusted for fact. Steve, this fragile person bleeding out on the couch. 

“Buck?” Steve says, louder this time. 

“What?” the Asset growls. 

“I need to clean this up,” Steve says insistently. “You can supervise.”

“Okay,” the Asset allows. 

Steve brings his hands to his head without prompting. He glances at the Asset for confirmation that he won't be shot again, but it's a strained look. The Asset gestures at the bathroom with his chin and Steve goes. Most of Steve's weight is on his left leg, but he manages to apply some pressure to the right. From the limited information the Asset can tell that the wound is shallow. 

Steve rifles through his medicine cabinet. He holds out a pair of tweezers in his palm and lets the Asset inspect what he has. When the Asset nods Steve does the same with rubbing alcohol and gauze.

The Asset positions himself outside the bathroom door so he can watch Steve and keep the apartment door in sight. 

Steve sinks to the floor and pulls his pants off. He goes to work with the tweezers, searching for the bullet that's probably embedded in his flesh. 

The Asset watches Steve for a good minute. Steve, who completely ignores him while he's dressing his wound. Steve, who he shot. Steve, who thinks he is his friend. Steve, his mission. The Asset's brain stutters, tripped up by the possibilities. 

This feels like a threat. There's a threat, even if he can't immediately discern what it is. As soon as the thought enters his head, he's gone. The Asset walks out of Steve's apartment. 

He doesn't glance back to see if Steve notices him leave. More importantly, he doesn't look over his shoulder to secure the area and make sure that Steve isn't pointing a gun at him. It's unlikely, but he could have had one stashed at the back of the medicine cabinet, behind a fake backing. Unlikely, but always possible. Sloppy of him not to check. 

He leave the weapons behind. Let someone find them. Let them find everything. They don't matter anymore. He gets distance - that's the new priority. 

As he expected they would be, the lower levels of the building are empty. He walks out the front door of the apartment building and no one stops him. 

The streets are empty for a five block radius. He slips into the crowd of the sixth block. The people who had evacuated the perimeter had misjudged the amount of weaponry he'd had in the apartment building. He notes the underestimation. It may prove useful later. 

Steve's words play on loop in his mind. I read a file. I read a file. I read a file.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was supposed to be a sugar daddy porn filled one shot with Steve taking care of Bucky after CA:TWS, but when I tried to write that in character some meta exploration and a plot snuck up on me. I'm just going to let this go where it wants to. Do not expect punctual updates.


	2. Chapter 2

If Hydra's really gone, they won't have cause to mind the Asset's snooping. If Hydra's still around, well, he'll deal with that when he finds them. Is that tremor of anticipation pleasure or dread? Emotions bleed into each other, one after the next, until everything is murky and all he's certain of is that his brain was much more efficient when it was silent. 

The Hydra base he reported to after missions is trashed. Most of the computers are gone. The rest are mechanical rubble. The weapons have been cleared out too. He's careful with the remaining bullets in his gun after that. 

The Asset moves on to a Hydra base he's never been to but had been told about, back when they'd been instilling the necessity of back up plans in him. He judges from the exterior that Captain America and his people haven't found it yet. At the thought of Captain America the Asset's mind reels back to an image of Steve bleeding out on the couch. He's definitely gone to a doctor by now, had the wound looked at by an expert, no chance he'll lose the limb, but that doesn't quell the disturbance in his gut. The Asset shakes his head roughly. 

No one is tracking him, probably. Impossible to be sure when he won't slow down to stake out his own path. Even if someone is there, it's not worth the effort to eliminate them. Not right now anyways. Getting information is a priority. The threat of potentially compromising that information doesn't register to the Asset as important anymore. 

The security lock on the front door of the base is still intact. The Asset presses his metal hand into the finger scan. His code number flashes across the screen and something unlatches inside, door pressing open on its own. 

The air in the base is stale. The building hasn't been entered in some time. The Asset closes the door behind him. It was loud on the way in and if he's quiet he'll hear anyone following after him. 

The base is meant to be a bunker and it should be secure from anyone that isn't Hydra. The thought gives him pause. Is he Hydra? 

Can Hydra be dead if he's still alive? 

Does it live in him? 

His unfaithful mind wrenches back to the image of Steve, this time narrowing in on the look of surprise on his face when the Asset shot him. 

Steve certainly doesn't think he's Hydra. Does that mean something? 

What does Hydra think? 

His identification code and access key get him into the computer system, but he can't pull up his own file. Interesting. It takes less than ten minutes to pull that information up by other means. 

There are a litany of names that come up attached to his identification code, but one in particular stands out. James Buchanan Barnes.

The accompanying file reads like a dissection. Piece by piece they took the person that was Bucky out of him. Piece by piece they ripped him apart, stitching him back together with a cyborgian compliance. So it suggests. The information sits on the surface of the Asset's brain and freezes everything it touches. 

The Asset's stare bores into the computer screen long after he loses focus and his vision goes blurry. Hydra, the museum exhibit, and Steve are in accordance. 

It's only when he finally has the answer, knows at last who everyone thinks he is, that the Asset finds he never wanted it at all. Their truth feels as hollow to him as their lies. He can't distinguish between them and so in the end, they're all the same. 

The keyboard of the computer crunches with a plastic screech, as fragile as crumpled paper in the Asset's metal hand. He stares at his offending hand in frozen bemusement. 

Leaving evidence of his presence here, shooting Steve without intending to, aren't quite him either. 

The Asset sinks his head into his hands, fingers clasping tightly around his own bedraggled hair. Steve's words play on loop in his brain. I read a file. I read a file. I read a file. 

So what, he wants to scream back. What does it matter? 

This Bucky is as alien to him as any other person on the street. He's not any of them. Though he's not quite himself either. Staring at himself in the mirror, and seeing himself in the reflection, would be a foreign act. Especially now that Hydra is gone. But he's not. 

Can Hydra be vanquished when he's the living remnants of its violence, entrenched as it is in bone, blood, and metal? 

It's difficult to breath under the assault of thoughts. Might this be panic? Or is it just the inevitable unravelling of a cyborg that wasn't put together very well, meeting his end now that there is no one left to patch him up? 

In the maelstrom there is a passing thought. The man on the bridge is still his mission. The Asset latches onto it like a lifeboat. 

Complete the mission, he says in his mind. 

Complete the mission, he repeats. 

The Asset shudders under the familiar discipline of orders and rubs at the dried tears streaking down his face. He exhales sharply, releasing the tension of his body to sink into that subdued state of mind where he's nothing but the mission. 

His whole body, a finely tuned machine, is free to orbit around a single goal. His sense of self is arbitrary. Unnecessary even. A nameless ghost. The only name that means anything to him is Steve. 

The backup Hydra base was stocked to outlast the end of days. The Asset makes short work of the storeroom, packing a lightweight bag with canned goods, assorted camping supplies, and some cash he lifts from a safe in the back. He trades his bulletproof armour for a newer version, this one clean, and sets aside a button down shirt to conceal it under. The Asset runs his hand over the soft fabric. Cotton. He's ill used to something so flimsy, but since his mission no longer requires swift and efficient elimination it seems appropriate. 

He tucks several handguns and bullet cases into the false bottom of his bag, all designed to be lightweight. The Asset slips a handgun into the fitted holster on his hip, conspicuous as it is. Nothing is worth trading for the comfort of being able to draw a weapon in an instant. 

The gun comes into the shower with him, cradled on the soap rack, while the Asset scrapes dried blood from the ridges of his metal arm. He takes the extra time to wash himself because it's hygienic, so he tells himself. He can't get out of his mind the image of Steve's face contorting into shock, eyes trailing down his bloody arm, after he'd secured the upper levels of the apartment building. 

The Asset secures the Hydra bunker as an after thought. He may need to return for guns and food. Though in no short supply outside, he can't guarantee he can get to them without attention. He severs the base from the Hydra network, rerouting the camera loops, and blocking access to all authorized personnel aside from him. He would linger on how easy it was to compromise Hydra for his own agenda, but his mantra drowns everything out. Complete the mission. Complete the mission. 

-

Steve Rogers is not in his apartment. Yellow caution tape blocks off the building's entrance. The Asset watches from the rooftop across the street. Aside from the rare armed police patrol, no one goes inside. 

The Asset catches the image of the building on the front page at a newspaper stand that he passes by. He pays for the paper and reads it on a bench in a nearby park. He sits stiffly, gloved metal hand splayed over the butt of his gun mostly concealed by his untucked shirt. 

He skims the article on the front page. Apartment to be condemned. Supposedly no one wants to live on the site of one of the biggest massacres of the decade. To be made into a memorial. The Asset pauses, lips pursed, something like concern threatening to surface in him. His fingers grip around the trigger of his gun, metal against metal reassuring. He reads on. 

Captain America, sole occupant of the building when the gunman finished with the top floors, was released from hospital with no serious injuries. To be residing at Stark Tower. The Asset almost rolls his eyes. So careless with their national icons. 

It's the last paragraph that gives him real pause. Unnamed gunman dead. Body recovered from the top floor where Captain America killed him. The Asset reads it again, eyebrows twitching as they furrow in confusion. Unnamed gunman dead. 

Stark Tower is easy to find, all flashy and bright. The Asset observes it from the ground like any other tourist. He makes no effort to conceal his binoculars while he takes note of the various ways to gain access to the building. Windows that are left open. Balconies in close proximity to other buildings or trees. The minimal checks security goes through. 

The newspaper article hadn't supplied the floor that Steve is staying on and the Asset finds himself staking out Stark Tower from a coffee shop across the street. He buys a coffee, black, and a bagel. He sips the coffee slowly, trying not to think of what will happen when he runs out of cash. That look on Steve's face when he saw the imprints of a massacre on his metal arm is haunting him again. 

“Hey,” the Asset says to the coffee shop worker wiping down the table beside him. She looks up with a smile. 

“You ever see Captain America? I read in the paper that he moved into Stark Tower,” the Asset says with his best carefree voice, smiling and forcing the emotion to reach up into his eyes and shine out all the death that must be in there. He can think of six different ways to kill her before she could make noise, four of which involve his coffee cup, and he's hoping that the thoughts aren't creeping onto his haggard face. 

“Not in here, sir. Not during working hours. Think he's out, doing important stuff. Sometimes when I'm opening though. He jogs in the park, real early,” she says.

“Thanks,” the Asset says. “What about Tony Stark?” 

“Yeah, he comes in here sometimes.”

The Asset clasps his gloved hands on the table, one side of his lip quirking up into a smirk. “Oh? What's he like?”

The character traits come first. Friendly. Real polite. “Well, also a bit over confident,” the coffee shop worker admits, then takes it back with the shake of her head. “But he made the iron man suit. I guess he's got a right to be.”

The Asset nods along, making note to look up the iron suit at a later point, surmising it must be public information from the way that the worker so casually talks about it. He slides his attention along the periphery of his vision while she tells him more about Tony Stark, monitoring the exits. Front door. Back door leads out to a fenced off patio. The fence is short enough to jump. Two bathrooms in the shop, no exits. Staff room with potential exit to the alley behind it. Last resort. The Asset's pupils flick back to her on cue, smiling right in time for a joke. 

He buys a hotel room for the night and tries not to make an ugly face at his dwindling wad of bills. 

The Asset lays awake in his clothes, on the bed and on top of the covers. Safer that way. He won't be obstructed if someone comes through the door. The windows are on the same wall as the door and if he tilts his head to the left he can watch all of them at once. The Asset cradles a gun in his hand, waiting for a sleep that doesn't come. His system hasn't registered the aches in his muscles, instead continuing to pour out adrenaline. 

He slips out into the night. 

The deck of the outdoor pool is bathed in the light of Stark Tower. The tower is a few blocks away, but the whole neighbourhood is lit up with it. The Asset short circuits the roving security cameras, hops the fence, and settles into a patio chair on the pool's deck. Most of his figure is hidden by the oversized umbrella. 

The Asset watches the sides of the tower, eyes slipping from window to window, on to the balconies, then back around again. Complete the mission, he thinks, except this feels a lot like looking out for Steve. He can't ignore that his gaze settles more on who's outside of the tower, who might get inside, than who already is.

He wakes up to the blinding light of early morning, startling when he realizes he'd fallen asleep at all. His body is stiff from a night in the patio chair. He hops the pool deck fence a little less gracefully than the night before. The Asset skulks back to his rented room. 

The Asset washes his mouth out in the sink, trying to ignore the stale taste. He rifles through his pack and pulls out a can of baked beans, using a knife to pry it open. He sits cross legged on the bed with his shoes still on. The Asset hadn't bothered to take a spoon from the Hydra base, why weigh himself down with such an inefficient utensil, and regrets it for a moment. He eats in grim silence, tilting the can back to slide the beans into his mouth. 

The park Steve jogs in isn't difficult to locate. The Asset leaves his pack in the hotel room, taking only a knife and handgun. He makes a fast round of the park, noting where the walking routes go, where the bushes cover up potential hiding spots, and the quickest way back to the main road. It's impossible to secure, but he lets this go, settling down on a park bench to wait. 

His whole body goes stiff at the first sight of Steve. Steve, turning around a corner to make his way past the playground. The monkey bars and the slides are empty. It's too early for children to be playing yet. The morning light is only just now stretching, not yet gotten to the dew still wet on the grass. The Asset's breath is fog in the chilled air as he exhales sharply. 

The Asset jerks to his feet. 

His footfall is silent as he cuts back across a path and winds up next to Steve. They jog alongside each other in amicable quiet for a few breaths. 

Steve glances up, visibly startling at the sight of the Asset. His very blue eyes go wide, he chokes out his next exhale, and then everything in Steve's face softens like he's just looked into the sun. “Bucky,” he says between laboured breaths. 

“Not quite,” the Asset replies before he can think on it. His eyes shrewdly flicker from Captain America to the walking path they're jogging on. Around the bend. Behind the swing set. Watching the bushes for signs of movement. Back again to Steve, who he stupidly thinks won't do anything when he's not looking, but at least he's got enough sense to not completely overlook him. 

Steve doesn't acknowledge the admission. “Wasn't sure you'd be back. Hoped you'd be back,” he prattles on as they match each other's strides. 

“That why you're out here in the open? When there's an assassin on the loose?” the Asset says, lip quirking up into a wicked half smirk. “Oh no wait, I read the paper. It says there isn't,” he laughs coldly. 

Steve stumbles mid stride, but catches himself. “Are you,” his eyes widen, “are you mad that you think I'm being reckless? Don't have to take care of me Buck.”

“Course not,” the Asset says back quickly.

“I can handle myself,” Steve reassures him anyway. 

“Course you can,” the Asset says sarcastically. The emotions bite into him, so many more than he's had in a while, and it's a good thing he's jogging because his muscles are screaming and he can vent out the confusion into his own body. “Who'd you tell I was dead? Or does anyone even know it was me?”

“Don't worry about it. I took care of it,” Steve says. 

“Like you took care of Hydra?” the Asset laughs. “Surprised you're running after I put a bullet into your leg.”

Steve stops jogging. The Asset immediately mirrors him, slowing down, but staying on his toes, in case he needs to move fast. 

“You're not Hydra,” Steve says seriously, staring the Asset right in his eyes. 

That look is trying to claw something out of him. Someone. The Asset shirks under it, going back to the mantra before things become overwhelming again. Complete the mission. Complete the mission. Except now that his mission is staring back at him, the Asset doesn't quite know what to do with him. 

“I'm sure as hell not Bucky,” he snaps back. 

“You were,” Steve says, jaw stern. “You still are. They just did-”

“I know what they did,” the Asset cuts him off. “Doesn't mean anything,” he says. 

By the look on Steve's face the Asset can see that the other man disagrees, but the Asset can't feel the weight of meaning behind any of it. Bucky. The Winter Soldier. Someone else entirely. None of the names have enough solid meaning behind them to ground him. 

A jogger with a baby stroller pushes between them where they're stopped on the path. The Asset reaches for his gun as he startles, snapping back into himself with an alarming clarity. When had he stopped scanning the perimeter? 

“Let it go Buck,” Steve's saying softly. “Release your hand.” 

The jogger's gone, it's just the two of them, but that's for right now. They're still in a very public place. Steve also hasn't learned from his mistakes. His shirt is so thin that the Asset can see the peaks of his nipples through it in the cold morning. Definitely not wearing bulletproof armour. 

“Going to have to let go of the gun,” Steve says, firmer now. “Can't have you shooting up the park.” 

It's the tone of his voice. It's that it's Steve. It's that he's tired. The reasons roll around in his head as the Asset mechanically releases his grip on the gun, hands held up to his chest, fingers splayed out. 

“Thank you,” Steve says. “Good.”

The Asset eyes him warily. His body is a live wire, tension settling into his muscles now that they're not running. Steve seems to notice. “Let's get back to jogging, okay?” he asks carefully. 

The Asset frowns, the delicate words bristling under his skin like an unwanted physical sensation. Everything is too close and too tender. 

“I'm going to jog. You're going to jog next to me,” Steve tries again, voice harder this time. “Come on.”

Steve starts jogging again. 

The Asset is back to mirroring his movements, easily falling in stride beside him. This time he's careful to keep Steve in the centre of his vision while he scans the park out of the corner of his eye. 

“So you're worried about me,” Steve says conversationally. 

“Didn't say that,” the Asset grunts back. 

“Didn't have to,” Steve retorts, blue eyes large and wistful as he stares at the Asset like he can pull Bucky out if only he wants enough, and oh there's no denying from that look on his face how much Steve _wants_. 

“It's okay, to worry,” Steve reassures him. 

The Asset stares at Steve blankly while they jog, the patient rhythm of their feet against pavement tempting him to release the tension rippling from his back to his shoulders. 

“Where are you staying?” Steve asks. 

“Why?” the Asset snaps, not pleased about this topic either. 

“I don't want you sleeping outside,” Steve admits, though it's unclear if he's concerned about the Asset or the people that might come across him while he's unconscious. “They pay me pretty well. I could-”

“Not your charity,” the Asset cuts him off. 

“It's either my money or someone else's,” Steve replies, all the ways that the Asset would get someone else's money weighing done his voice. An honest days work for him is nothing close to honest. 

“Take it,” Steve says, firmer this time. He watches the Asset's face on a hunch, his own alighting with curiosity when he sees it go a little slack. 

“Cash. Don't try and track it,” the Asset demands. 

“Anything else?” Steve asks. 

“No.”

“I'm staying at Stark Tower. The place is huge. I'm sure I could find you a room, or Tony could take a look at your -”

“No.”

“Okay,” Steve says, running a hand back through his sweat drenched hair. “Just the cash,” he mumbles, not able to help the smile that's tugging at his lips, and the Asset knows it won't be just the cash. He can't find it in himself to identify the feeling that crests at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is moving slower than I expected, but I didn't watch to push them too ooc to get to the explicit parts. Hopefully soon? There is plot progress though! :)

“I could give you access to my account,” Steve offers while he's taking money out of the ATM. 

“No,” the Asset grunts from where he's leaning against the side of the machine, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes track across the sidewalk, moving onto the street, and then around again. 

“Could get you your own card,” Steve goes on anyways. 

“Just the cash.”

Steve laughs as he hands the Asset a wad of one hundred dollar bills. At the Asset's steely glare passing over him Steve supplies, “probably shouldn't have done this here. It's going to be on the front page tomorrow that Captain America's buying sex.”

The Asset takes the money and pockets it. “Better than the alternative,” he mutters, which amounts to nothing less than setting up Hydra's top assassin in a hotel. Funding illegal operations, as the government would see it. Accessory to whatever the Asset does next. “Who knows, maybe that'll be my next job. Can probably get it without references,” the Asset says with a quirk of his lip into a half smirk, eyes flicking back to Steve just in time for his reaction. 

Steve shrugs. “If you want to, sure. I'm not going to tell you what to do Buck.” He reaches out to pat the Asset on the arm and stops when he remembers himself, hand hovering in mid air. “And hey, if you want to, and it turns out you need the references, I can help you out,” Steve quips with a genuine smile that doesn't match the tease of his words. 

The Asset arches an eyebrow. “Do you think we ever did that?” he asks, ghost of the smirk across his lips while he tries to make sense of the direction their conversation has taken. 

The concession visibly pains Steve. The Asset's referring to a life before with Steve, but only one that Steve thinks happened and not one that actually did - as if Steve's the one without his memories. 

“No,” Steve says, eyes darting away quickly. 

The Asset stares at Steve in silence, cataloguing the other man's body language and reaction for later reference. He doesn't take 'no' as the denial Steve probably intended it to be. 

“Thanks for the cash,” the Asset says, the appreciation foreign to him. It's slightly uncomfortable, but he's not sure what to replace it with. 

Steve nods. “See you around,” he says, referring to the one unspoken truth between them. No matter who the Asset is, he's not done with Steve. This isn't goodbye. 

“You won't,” the Asset replies flatly. “I'm better than that.” He leaves, the promise of unseen stalking heavy in the air between them. 

The Asset doesn't return to his hotel room that night, checking into a new one at the other end of the city. 

He lays the cash and his gun on the bedspread and makes quick work of sorting the bills into piles. 

Steve gave him enough for a week of food and double booked hotels. There's not enough to alternate between three rooms, which would have brought him more peace of mind. Perhaps next time he'll specify the amount he wants. Steve would give him any amount, clear from the way he'd been so ready to give up his own account information. The Asset's mind reels back and stalls - next time he takes money from Steve. He's already hedging his plans on the next time he'll depend on Steve. 

Steve's laugh from earlier echoes in his ears. Steve joking someone would think Captain America's buying sex. If he's going to routinely be giving the Asset money, he better be buying something. Some long lost sense of pride surges in the Asset. 

Steve can help him out for a while, sometimes people need help, but surely there's something that he can do in exchange for the cash. The gun on the bedspread glints convincingly in the dim hotel light. There's at least one set of skills at his disposal. 

He gives up on sleep, trading it for a sense of purpose. Complete the mission. Earn the money from Steve. If he doesn't look too closely, his goals align. The Asset slips out into the night. 

There's only one guard at Stark Tower during the night shift. With the binoculars the Asset lifted from the first hotel room, he can see that he's playing Tetris on one of the security computers. The game covers up a security camera feed - though which the Asset can't guess. It's all very careless. The Asset spends the night watching the building for any sign of threat. 

When Steve leaves Stark Tower for his morning jog the Asset trails him to the park. He keeps at least twenty feet between them. Later he can lower it to ten, but so early in the morning twenty is necessary with so few people out and about on the streets. There's less cover from Steve, who glances around every now and then. To a neutral observer Steve might looks like he's checking the street signs so he doesn't get lost. The Asset knows better.

He leaves Steve in the park. He's had enough of sleeping for the rest of his life, but his body doesn't agree. 

He sleeps in four hour intervals, with the exception of nights, which he stays up for. He feels more vulnerable sleeping at night. Steve is more vulnerable when he's asleep. He feels more at home, prowling through the darkness. The possible explanations for the Asset's actions roll around in his head and none of them seem quite right. 

Tracking down where Steve has gone while the Asset's been unconscious drains his time, makes him less efficient. Without a partner to keep tabs on Steve he can only work on educated guesses and learn quickly from the patterns he observes and his own mistakes. 

One time he doesn't find Steve between waking up and his next scheduled nap. There's a panic that overcomes the Asset, filling up his body with raw adrenaline. He can't fall back asleep. 

Steve lives on the tenth floor of Stark Tower, he's pretty sure. He's noted a correlation between Steve going into the building and the lights that turn on. Until now the Asset has found no need to test his theory. If it's wrong, he'll adjust. It's a small concern after losing Steve. It doesn't matter that he knows where he is now. Just once was enough. In his apartment might be enough information on his future whereabouts to ensure that it doesn't happen again. The Asset waits until nightfall. 

The Asset counts ten minutes after Steve leaves before he makes his move. His first instinct is to go through the front door, secure Stark Tower, and then move up. He won't have to worry about the way down. Steve's horrified face is his constant phantom companion, providing a moral compass for moments like these. Steve's disgust at what he'd have to do to secure the tower outweighs the needling insecurity that has the Asset's skin feel like a frayed wire as he moves, but just barely. 

He scales the tower wall, moving from balcony to balcony under the cover of darkness. When there's nothing to grab onto to hoist himself higher he relies on rope. 

The Asset fiddles with balcony door he assumes is Steve's, but it's stuck. The lock is on the inside. 

The Asset takes a step back and kicks open the door, heel breaking through the glass. It shatters around him in a spray and crunches under his boots as he walks into the apartment. 

There's a faint electrical buzzing, something is on, but there are no visible cameras and audible alarms. The Asset frowns but doesn't pause to accommodate his concern. He immediately gets to work on searching the room for anything of value to his cause. 

There is a calendar in the bedroom, but it's only filled in with mundane events, spaced apart by weeks. Dentist appointment. Jane's birthday. He boots up the laptop in the office and goes to search through the kitchen cupboards while it turns on. Sometimes people keep day planners with the pencils, next to the paper for their grocery lists. 

Something creaks in the apartment. 

The Asset stiffens against the kitchen wall. His right hand goes to the gun at his hip, pulling it out slowly to muffle the sound. He clicks the safety off. 

A quick bang echoes through the apartment, followed by another one. It takes the Asset a few seconds to realize that someone's knocking on the front door. 

“Buck?” Steve's muffled voice calls through the door. “I've got a key, but I don't want to startle you. Can I come in?”

The Asset stares at the closed door. His mission has been compromised. 

The laptop has turned on by now, but he hasn't checked it for a schedule. There's not enough time to download its contents onto a hard drive, and that's even assuming the computer isn't password protected. He'll have to come back later. Or he could just ask Steve to pass along his daily appointments. What a novel idea. It's not like Steve doesn't know he's being stalked. It's not like Steve's even objected. Steve's paying him for this, except he doesn't know that. Th grating of thoughts is a physical burden on his body. 

“Ugh, yeah,” the Asset says awkwardly, voice strained. “You can come in.”

“Gun away?” Steve calls out. There's an audible click as a key in the front door unlocks it. 

“No,” the Asset says back, fingers still gripped around the trigger. 

“Um, okay,” Steve says, hesitating. “Just try not to shoot,” he concedes. 

A sliver of light spills in from the hallway as Steve slowly opens the front door. He eases it open the rest of the way with his foot, hands out and open where the Asset can see them. 

“So,” Steve says, clearing his throat and smiling softly when he makes eye contact with the Asset. “Want to fill me in on why you broke into an intern's apartment?”

“What?” the Asset snaps.

“You didn't just break in here to get into the building. J.A.R.V.I.S said you've been in this apartment for ten minutes,” Steve tells him. 

Whoever J.A.R.V.I.S is can wait for now. “This isn't your apartment?” the Asset says slowly, something like embarrassment causing his cheeks to flush. 

“No, a Miss Darcy Lewis lives here,” Steve drawls, face strained into something that looks like confusion. “She's an intern for Tony Stark right now. Didn't think you'd come to see her.” He shrugs. “But I don't know, she might actually be your type.”

“Type?” the Asset asks flatly. 

“Kind of girl you'd go for,” Steve clarifies, face peculiarly guarded as he speaks, simultaneously opening up possibilities for the Asset while he's reining something else in. A good old bait and switch. Watch what I'm giving you, not what I'm hiding. The Asset notes the manoeuvre and catalogues it in his mind to scrutinize later. 

“Where's your apartment?” the Asset says.

“Eight floors up. We can take the elevator,” Steve offers. 

The Asset looks Steve over, something he should have done the second he allowed him in the apartment. When had he deemed Steve wasn't a threat? 

Steve's not carrying a gun, unless it's a small one. There doesn't appear to be a holster under Steve's jacket, but there could be something around the back. No way to tell if he's got a blade. Not good to get close enough to find out unless he's ready to take it. “Stairs. We'll take the stairs,” the Asset says after he's looked him over. 

“Lead the way,” Steve says with a smile, all polite and charming. 

At the cold look from the Asset Steve's smile falters. “Actually, I'll lead the way,” Steve corrects himself quickly.

They walk up the stairs in silence. The Asset keeps the gun out. He's confident that Steve won't try anything right now. His confidence is what scares him. 

Steve unlocks his apartment door and steps inside. He stops in the middle of the living room and turns to face the Asset. 

“You can take what you came for, but if it's cash you know you don't have to steal that,” Steve says. 

The Asset follows him inside, closing the door behind them. 

“Who is J.A.R.V.I.S.?” the Asset asks. Someone knew he was here, but he doesn't know where they are. The thought is unpleasant, to say the least.

“Stark's artificial intelligence. I told him if you might come by and to tell me before he alerted security.” 

“Is security coming?” the Asset asks.

“No, it's just us. I can leave if you'd rather. I only came up so that you didn't trash Darcy's apartment,” Steve says, unspoken between them that the Asset can do anything to Steve's apartment that he likes. It's not quite trust between them. Steve seems to know perfectly well that the Asset will hurt him. It's a lot closer to acceptance. The thought grates on the Asset uncomfortably. 

“Was looking for your schedule,” Bucky admits. Steve might as well know what his money is buying him.

“Oh, that's on my phone,” Steve says, pulling it out of his pocket and bringing up his calender on it. “I could text it to you, but, maybe you'd like to take a picture of it?” Steve offers, holding the phone out in his palm. 

The Asset holsters his gun, watching Steve as he does so. The other man doesn't react. The Asset takes the phone from Steve. “I don't have anything to take a picture with,” he admits as he commits tomorrow's schedule to memory. 

“I could get Tony to give you a phone?” Steve offers, face resigned as if he's expecting to be rejected. The words come out anyways though.

“I'll get one. I'll be back with it,” the Asset says curtly. His eyes flicker over the schedule, only watching Steve in his periphery vision. 

“Sure. Mind telling me why you want it?” Steve says, voice a little firmer than usual. His face is soft when the Asset glances up at him. 

“That an order?” the Asset scoffs, the disobedience a thrilling sensation as much as it is alien. There's some sarcastic humour there, threatening to break the surface. It's been so long since he's been wiped. Since he's been properly asleep, cuddled up in ice. Perhaps straying from his routine is the reason for what sounds like someone else talking with his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Why do you want to know where I am?”

“Can't keep an eye on you if I don't,” the Asset replies simply, handing back the phone.

Steve takes it. “Why do you need to do that?”

“Should be paying me for something.”

“You don't need to do anything for that money Buck,” Steve says softly. “I have a lot. I don't need -”

“I think I want to,” the Asset cuts him off. The confession is physically painful and his face strains, forcing itself to fight in the fog of confusion. Why does he want to? Why does it matter that Steve is his mission?

“Okay,” Steve says with a small smile. “Okay. How about I leave my schedule out for you in my apartment? Why don't we get you a key?”

The Asset arches an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

“Well, you know, you're just doing your job. I shouldn't get in the way of that,” Steve says, obviously just humouring him, but the Asset finds that he doesn't mind. 

Steve takes the Asset's job seriously, even if he's treating it as a metaphor for the Asset's state of mind. “So we should have regular meetings,” Steve says while he sits comfortably on the couch, eyes focused on the television that neither of them are watching. The Asset has relocated to leaning against the living room wall. “Maybe at a coffee shop. We could talk about how things are going. If there's something you need-”

“I don't need anything,” the Asset cuts him off. 

“something you need for your job,” Steve says firmly with a wide smile. 

“There won't be,” the Asset says. Pauses. “Not again,” he corrects himself. 

“Well the meetings aren't optional. Maybe we'll do progress reports. Work reviews. Gossip about your coworkers,” Steve says, and it's both simultaneously endearing and frustrating to hear as Steve pins him into a corner with those words that evade the actual situation that they're in. 

“Sure, whatever,” the Asset replies, fighting off the paranoia unfurling in his gut. He can't complete his mission if he's worrying about Steve. It's only logical, except the prospect of logic does nothing to make him feel better. Perhaps because he knows it's a flimsy lie. “I'll pick the time and location,” he says.

“Of course,” Steve says. 

Later they turn on Steve's laptop and he shows the Asset how to input events into Steve's google calendar from any computer. “You could do this at a public library, or an internet cafe,” Steve tells him. “You could even check my calender this way.”

“Leave the print out in your apartment in the morning,” the Asset says flatly. 

“Sure,” Steve says. The boundaries aren't quite right, but it's almost an easy camaraderie between them. Not anywhere close to what Steve's hinted his relationship with Bucky used to be like, but it's more than the Asset has ever felt before. It's almost, almost, like he belongs - and that's very different than belonging to someone, which is all that he remembers of before.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earns the fic's explicit rating. End of the chapter has trigger warnings.

“How's work been going?” Steve asks casually, warm blue eyes watching Bucky over the rim of his almond milk cappuccino. The Asset has never been to a work meeting before, but he can't imagine that the coffee is supposed to be this expensive. That Steve had paid for both of their drinks without so much as blinking at the bill suggests that he really does have money to throw around. 

“Fine,” the Asset grunts. He stirs the little wooden stick in his coffee. The sugar's long dissolved, but it's something to keep his hand busy and away from the gun tucked into the back of his pants. 

“Enjoying it?” Steve presses, the metaphor lost on no one. He wants to know if Bucky likes working as an undercover body guard that no one asked for. Is he happy? What can Steve do to make him happy? The words don't even need to leave Steve's lips; the concern bleeds out of his softening gaze, sappy and intimate in a way the Asset doesn't know what to do with. 

“S'fine,” the Asset repeats. 

“What could be better?” Steve asks. 

The Asset takes a sip of his black coffee, busying his mouth while his mind reels for an answer. The neurons and synapses freeze up the moment he starts searching for a way to respond. It must show up on his face.

“You don't have to answer that,” Steve says softly. “It's okay if we're not there yet.” 

The Asset puts down his drink. “Not where?” he asks flatly. 

“Not... ready for a work review yet. Too soon. Just started,” Steve replies, fooling no one. 

The Asset nods. “Right.”

Steve comes up with other ways to check in. In between sipping his drink he casually asks, “finding my daily schedule print outs okay?” and “what about the key to my apartment? still working?” The Asset nods blankly each time, trying to not make it too obvious that he's only half paying attention to Steve. His gaze slips across the coffee shop, securing the exits and checking on the other patrons. Now and then he locks his gaze on Steve, but only to quell that disturbing feeling in his gut that simmers each time he catches his attention sweeping right past Steve. Steve is a person. Captain America. He is not secure, the Asset reminds himself with empty vehemence. 

“Been checking my apartment for threats?” Steve asks. The Asset goes very still at that. “I mean, it's probably not a problem, but while you're there, might as well do a routine check,” Steve says casually. Very casually. The Asset pays particular attention to what Steve says next. “Check the closet for anything that looks out of place. Computer for surveillance equipment or viruses. If you want.” Steve shrugs. “Up to you.” 

“Sure, of course,” the Asset replies. A half smirk creeps onto his face. It's at once familiar and foreign, like he's got the muscle memory of someone else. “You're the one paying me the big bucks, Sir,” the Asset says, adding the sass that goes along with that smirk. He doesn't miss Steve's only response: a long searching look he can't quite place. 

-

Steve's closet is a mess. Half of his previously worn clothes didn't make it to the laundry basket and are strewn across the closet floor. If only the admiring public could see their Captain America now, socks and underwear askew. Some of it even looks like lady's underwear, and those are definitely fishnet stockings, but where they came from the Asset has no idea. He's had Steve's apartment staked out for over two weeks now and, as far as the Asset knows, a woman hasn't come inside. If there weren't cameras in the apartment before the Asset came in, there will be after. That violent clenching in his gut is unfurling again, protesting that he might have missed something. Missing anything is far too negligent on his part.

Then there's the boxes in the closet. They're stacked neatly, but the contents inside don't follow any sense of order. Old magazines. Birthday cards. A stuffed teddy bear. Monopoly. The Asset partly suspects Steve hinted at searching his apartment for threats as a thinly veiled attempt to get the Asset to clean it. 

The nondescript black bag hidden behind the boxes is more promising, really potentially threatening, but when the Asset looks inside he sees the same flimsy handcuffs Steve had in his previous apartment. The Asset upends the bag and out tumbles the accompanying riding crop and blindfold. He returns them to the back of the closet with a grumble. The Asset dimly recalls Steve also suggested checking out his laptop. 

The Asset loads up a malware program on Steve's computer, letting it zip along unobtrusively in the background. He flicks through the folders on the desktop while waiting for the scan to finish. Captain America speeches. Travel pictures. A naked man, bound and gagged. 

Everything in the Asset's body stiffens as it freezes. His throat is clenched so tight that the next exhale is painful. It's just a picture. It's just a picture. It's not.... the thought trails off of its own accord, returning to its hole in a raw subconscious better left undisturbed.

The Asset forces his eyes to move. They dart across the picture, taking in the details with the calculated measure of the assassin he knows himself to be. There are tears streaming down the man's face in the picture. There are red marks on his naked ass. He's being tortured. But his cock... but his cock. The thoughts sputter, snagging on one another as the Asset fights his own confusion. The man's cock is erect and undeniably hard. 

After he notices the erection, the Asset can't unsee the precum beading on the tip of the man's cock. His eyes trail back to the other signifiers of torture, compromised by the jarring crash of violence and pleasure. Yes, the man is bound, but the rope is tied to elicit a quick release. It would take under three seconds to release the man. Under two, for the Asset. And the red lines... 

The Asset zooms in on the picture. The lines are almost evenly spaced. Shallow. Blunt. It's very likely that the red lines are marks left behind from someone raking their fingernails over the guy's ass. 

The Asset's mouth worries into a tight line and he leans back in his chair. 

He's definitely looking at torture, but it's not meant to be unpleasant. Or, is it meant to be unpleasant and that's the pleasant part? 

“I...” the Asset says, trailing off. Even if he could form a coherent opinion there's no one around to hear it. 

It's a different chair he's sitting in, but the Asset feels himself mentally transported back to the chair that they wiped him in. No one's tampered with his mind recently - as far as he knows - but it's freezing anyways. Freezing and cracking, as brittle things are ought to do. 

\- 

The Asset flexes his fingers experimentally. Blood has always felt different on the metal arm. Slick. Like it'll slide right off him, even though it cakes into the cracks and joints between the metal slats. He stares at the blood, trickling down his fingers, mind reaching a blank as he searches back for where it came from. Somehow this doesn't bother him as much as it would have before. 

A beep alerts the Asset that the malware scan has completed. Captain America's laptop is free of viruses. 

Steve. 

Steve's laptop is free of viruses. The correction is belated and detached. It's just an afterthought left behind by someone else the Asset borrowed the material of his brain from. James Barnes, maybe. The thought causes less of a reaction in him now. He can't quite find it in himself to care. 

The Asset closes the malware program, greeted by the picture of the bound and gagged naked man that is still open. The pornography. He notes this in an empty way. Factual. Objective. 

The Asset opens the other pictures in the folder without his earlier dilemma. The blood pools on his metal fingertips, staining the keyboard with bright red half crescent moons. The Asset's own blood in juxtaposition with the images on the screen is met with a considering eyebrow arch. 

The next picture is of a man wearing a dog collar and sucking on someone else's dick. The Asset stares at it for a silent few seconds before clicking the arrow to bring up the next picture in the folder. 

There's another guy, this one fully clothed with a collar, and he's kneeling patiently on the floor. 

A man wearing thigh high fishnet garters. Not unlike the ones on the floor of Steve's closet. The connections come faster in his empty mind now, purged of its hangups and discontents. It is no coincidence that Steve strongly hinted that the Asset should look through his laptop and that these pictures are in an easily accessible folder on the desktop. Is this Steve's way of suggesting he'd prefer a different kind of service from the Asset? 

The man in the next picture is getting fucked from behind while wearing a pair of flimsy handcuffs. Also extremely familiar. 

The last picture isn't a picture, but a video file. The Asset clicks it without hesitation. 

The video opens on a man sitting on a chair, eyes focused off-screen, to the left of the camera. 

“Tell me,” an off-screen voice purrs. “What do you want?”

“I want you to hurt me,” the man on the chair says. He pauses to clear his throat in excited anticipation. “Hurt me, and make me feel safe.” 

“What can I do to you?” the voice asks, stepping into the video camera's field of vision. All the Asset can see is the back of his legs. He's every authority figure the Asset's ever known, and yet he's not. The question lingers, eroding the assumptions that his mind makes. He can't tell who's supposed to be in charge. 

“Biting is good. You can use your nails, your tongue. You can fuck me with your fingers, or your dick, or a toy,” the man on the chair responds. He tilts his head in consideration. “If you want, whatever you want. I just want to be good for you. Have you tell me I'm good.” 

The voice walks more into the shot and now the Asset can see his entire back. “What do you not want?”

“No watersports. No rimming, this time,” the man on the chair says. 

“Okay, good,” the voice says. The Asset can hear the smile in his words. “What's your safeword?”

“Red,” the man on the chair says. 

“And if you say no?”

“Don't stop.” The man in the chair on the video and the Asset shudder simultaneously. 

The Asset's awareness of his own body comes all at once. His skin is hot. Too hot. Covering him. Isn't that what skin does? part of him wants to hiss, but the larger part of him is suffocating. He jerks and his knees slam to the floor. 

He didn't think to turn the video off and it's not long before he's screaming in time to the sound of the screaming on the video. 

His fingers wrap around his arms, digging in as he shakes and writhes. The metal arm punctures his flesh so easily, tearing, ripping, opening himself up, up up up. 

“It's okay, it's okay, it's okay,” he stammers, writhing, clutching himself as tight as he can, eyes wrenched closed. 

“It's okay, it's okay, it's okay,” he stammers, and as he keeps going he starts to forget that he's the one that's talking. That he's even the one that's there at all. 

-

The Asset is on one of his routine break ins of Steve's apartment when he sees something amiss on Steve's itinerary. 'Meeting with Bucky.' The Asset's eyes slip past the entry at first, only just barely slipping back because something in his mind peeps up to supply, that's me. That's supposed to me. 

Of course Steve wouldn't write 'Meeting with the Asset.' Does Steve even know that he calls himself that? Does he know Hydra called him that? He shakes his head to physically clear the thoughts. They're coagulating. Jamming up. They're going to cause a traffic jam and then he's not going to get anywhere. 

He hasn't seen Steve in person for two weeks and four days. Two weeks and four days since he curled up in a ball on Steve's floor and screamed and hissed himself to exhaustion. He only managed to pull out of his half-sleep trance for long enough to get and go, terrified of what he'd do if Steve found him like that. What Steve would do. What... the thoughts are clenching up again. 

The Asset had come back a few hours later to find Steve's apartment clean. Someone had cleaned up the blood all over the laptop and the floor and left again. The Asset's been back, but he hasn't seen Steve. 

His gut begins to clench in worry that Steve picked the time and place that they're meeting, but it unknots itself in one exhausted spasm. For a brief moment, everything hurts too much to care. He can't keep reaching. There is no part of himself that is more frightened or angry to dredge up. The Asset has given it all up and there's nothing left. Nothing at all. 

-

Steve's sitting at the back of the coffee shop the Asset picked the last time they met. He's sipping on another almond milk cappuccino the Asset notices is half gone. The black coffee Steve bought for him is cold. Steve says nothing about his lack of punctuality. All he does is smile, soft and curling at the edges of his lips, but the Asset's sure it'd be a full grin if Steve wasn't so worried as well. 

“How's work?” Steve asks, still with that little smile. 

“Can't complain,” the Asset responds flatly. 

Steve stares at him, obviously hoping for something. The Asset stares into his coffee and takes a long sip. He puts it down and doesn't elaborate.

“Okay, I was going to lead into this, or whatever, but I'm sorry. I thought you'd... I shouldn't have just assumed,” Steve says, all to quickly. 

The Asset stares at him blankly, face perfectly still. 

“I shouldn't have just assumed that you'd like it and we'd get a quick fix out of this,” Steve elaborates. 

“This?” the Asset says.

“Whatever they did to you. It was really stupid. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Buck,” Steve says, and it's heart wrenching that the little smile stays on his face while he speaks. Maybe it's always been a sad little smile and the Asset hasn't known how to interpret it before. “I wanted to help because I know you won't go to a therapist or whatever. And that was the only way I know how.” 

The Asset stares at Steve, incapable of shutting out how Steve's looking back at him. It's like Steve is bleeding all over the Asset with his emotions and the Asset just wants to shove him away. Get him out from under his skin. Get off his skin. Get him out out out. 

“Buck?” Steve says slowly, that sad smile deepening in its concern. Steve's practically on the verge of tears. There's a softness to his eyes that he rubs with the back of his hand. The tears snag on Steve's skin, glistening in the half coffee shop light. The Asset follows Steve's hand as it rubs at his eyes again and the Asset feels his cock twitch. 

The Asset jolts stiff, spine completely straight. Once he's recognized the growing pang of arousal, there's no going back. 

“Buck?” Steve says again, voice hoarse. 

“How did you... know how?” the Asset asks slowly. Can't bring himself not to, even as he mentally curses his traitorous dick using his mouth like a ventriloquist.

“I used to have someone who helped me with that. Someone who I could go to to feel safe when I needed to let go,” Steve replies slowly. He looks the Asset in the eye, tracking his face, watching for anything unfolding there. “Let me lose control.”

“I don't have any control to lose,” the Asset says. 

“Do you...” Steve says, pausing, hesitating. He clearly feels like what he's about to say is a bad idea, but he blurts it out anyways. “What about if I give you some of mine?”

“You mean I...” the Asset starts, stops, and frowns blankly. 

“I get a safe word. You be the one in charge. And I trust you to do stuff.”

Don't you know me at all, the Asset wants to scream? He bits his bottom lip. “How can you trust me to stop when you ask me to?” is what he says instead. 

“Well, we start really slow. Build up trust that way,” Steve says thoughtfully. “But I've always trusted you Buck.”

He shouldn't, but they've been over this before. No need to dredge up old ghosts who never quite leave. 

The Asset nods in spite of himself. They may not have been having sex or wearing those fishnet garters Steve has in his closet, but they've been playing this game of dominance and submission for a long time already. Steve's been playing russian roulette with an assassin, and only now he's getting a safe word. Only now is the Asset letting him have one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for vague/implied self-harm references and detailed description of having a panic attack from watching BDSM pornography.


	5. Chapter 5

“How do we start this?” the Asset asks. 

They've resumed their usual positions in Steve's apartment. Steve is on the couch, eyes trained on the television that no one is watching. Bucky's leaning against a wall, keeping the kitchen between him and his mission. There are too many knives to keep track of that it's safer to just rule the entire kitchen out. Something unnameable stirs somewhere around the Asset's stomach. Steve would let him use any of those knives on him. 

Or, would he? 

The Asset can feel his heartbeat increase. When it came down to it, would Steve's consent matter? The question lingers, coiling around him dangerously. 

“Well usually it's a good idea to talk about it first,” Steve says carefully. The Asset can tell that his syllables are too even. Practised. Cautious. “Set up what will and won't happen in the scene.” 

“That's what... what they...” the Asset starts, stops, and lets his eyebrows furrow as he dredges the memory from the depths of his mind. 

There's supposed to be some fear associated with the memory of the pornography he'd seen on Steve's laptop, but this time the images in his mind are hollow. He can only feel the muscle memory of himself screaming. He doesn't quite have the impulse to scream. Yet.

“Yeah,” Steve says hurriedly. “We can do something else to start if you'd prefer.”

“No. That's fine,” the Asset dismisses him. 

“Okay. What we'll do is up to you. Whatever you want. No blood though. No knives,” Steve lists off, turning his head to watch the Asset as he speaks. “You can keep your gun on you if you feel better that way, but don't take it out while we're doing this. If you do, we have to stop.” Steve stares at the Asset pointedly. 

“Understood,” the Asset says, voice cracking as he speaks. His lips fall into a terse line. 

“If I say stop, we stop, immediately. Same goes for you. You say stop whenever you don't feel comfortable. You can also say time out or pause if you need a minute,” Steve tells him.

“Alright. What's your safe word?” the Asset asks, parroting the phrase he'd heard in the video and that Steve had mentioned at the coffee shop. 

“Stop is my safe word. Stop is safe, okay?” Steve says insistently.

The Asset nods. So Steve hopes to reteach him the meaning of the word stop. Never mind the great personal risk Steve puts himself in by doing so. There are no guarantees. No safety mechanisms that the Asset can perceive. There is only a trust between them that the Asset will stop when Steve says stop. So much bound up in such a fragile little word. A meaningless burst of sound. That the Asset's thoughts even go down such a path, he realizes, is exactly the problem. 

“Anything else?” the Asset asks, keeping his face clear of the ever shifting doubt clawing up his brain. 

“Don't leave right away after. It's important to talk about it and you might need time to emotionally come down,” Steve says, voice becoming sterner by the end. “If you're going to do something that you think will make you need to leave after, I need you to not do it this time.” 

“Understood,” the Asset says flatly.

“That's it then.” Steve says and picks up the remote control and turns off the television. “You're in charge.” 

At the phrase 'in charge' the Asset stiffens in his place leaning against the wall. 

The Asset remains standing, straight as a board, and mind abuzz with nothing coherent enough to say. Pieces of emotions he can't quite name. 

He flexes his fingers and curls them into a fist, repeating the motion in an anxious habit. He can sort of feel the metal fingers as they dig into his metal palm. Feel might not be the right word. Something's hooked up inside of him to mimic the human sense of touch. If he closes his eyes he might imagine he is only wearing a peculiar glove, but the Asset doesn't dare take his eyes off of Steve. 

The Asset takes a tentative step forward. Already the impulse to let go is overwhelming, except it's hardly letting go in the sense that would be appropriate in such situations. Be someone else. Go away for a while. Don't come back, if possible, to lay claim to the sins done in his supposed name. The Asset grits his teeth, grounding himself with the pain. 

“It's okay Bu-” Steve says, silenced by the look on the Asset's face. Steve shifts on the couch and clasps his hands in his lap. 

Complete the mission. The Asset goes back to the mantra, eyes locked on Steve as he approaches. 

Complete the mission. Complete the mission. Repetition blocks reality and even words that aren't said aloud are eventually loud enough to block out the sound of his own boots scraping against the wood panelled floor. 

The Asset can't imagine the amount of trust it must take for Steve to remain still and pliable when he runs his metal index finger along Steve's chin and tilts his head up. The Asset uses his thumb to brace Steve's face on the other side. Steve blinks at him patiently. Even his exhales are patient. Perfectly even, down to an exact rhythm. Two in, four out. The impracticality of such a precise number betrays the effort. 

“Don't,” the Asset says. 

“Don't what?” Steve asks softly, breath brushing up against the Asset's fingertips as he speaks. 

“Don't be so in control,” the Asset clarifies. “That... that's supposed to be mine, right?” The statement slips into a question by the end. 

“Whatever you want me to do, I'll do it,” is all Steve says, face far too earnest for such dangerous words. 

“Stop trying to keep yourself calm,” the Asset says. “It freaks me out, the -”

“You don't have to explain yourself. Unless you want to,” Steve interrupts him, looking quite pained to do so even as the words tumble out anyways. 

“Show me what you're actually feeling,” the Asset says. 

Steve nods. His next exhale is shorter. Even, but less precise. 

“Good,” the Asset says. 

Steve half smiles up at the Asset in encouragement, but that's alright because the Asset recognizes the sadness that lingers in it. 

“You know what I've done with these hands, don't you?” the Asset murmurs. 

He feels Steve nodding in response, jostling his fingertips. 

The Asset's finger traces Steve's bottom lip. He dips his finger into Steve's mouth and experimentally runs it along Steve's lower teeth. The specifics of Steve's wet tongue are lost on the Asset's metal finger, but he can feel the muscle of Steve's tongue pressing against his finger in a hard line. 

“I've killed people,” the Asset says flatly. The emotion behind such words is lost to him. “Dead. They're dead Steve. In the ground, dead, if they weren't cremated because I cut them up in too many pieces to put in a box.” 

The Asset's thumb presses into Steve's cheek, forcing his mouth open more and giving his metal finger further access to Steve's tongue. The muscle flinches, but Steve doesn't resist the Asset pinning his tongue to the bottom of his mouth. The Asset briefly wonders what his metal finger tastes like. Is it all cold, frigid like ice, or might it taste like iron and copper pennies? He doesn't voice the thought, just presses on with his previous assault. “And those are the ones I wanted them to find. You can't even imagine what I did to the ones no one was supposed to see.” 

Steve's voice is clipped, the Asset refusing to release his tongue, when he says, “they made you do it." Steve's tongue writhes under the Asset's finger with every word. 

“Not like I didn't have a choice,” the Asset replies.

“You didn't have any choices,” Steve struggles to speak. 

“And what about-” the Asset's jaw clenches. The apartment. Securing every level. One by one. Precise. Efficient. The words lock up in the light of Steve's faithful expression and the accompanying overwhelming desire to rip it right off his face. The surge of want stops the Asset cold. His body burns to wrench that trusting look from Steve's eyes. 

“It's okay,” Steve says so quietly the Asset almost doesn't hear him. 

The Asset pulls his finger out of Steve's mouth. 

“I haven't said stop. We can if you need to, but I haven't said stop,” Steve says, voice clear without the obstruction. 

“You don't know what I've done. What I want. What-” the Asset's words cut short and he glances uneasily to the side. 

There's a faint thud. The Asset's head jerks back, but Steve's only dropped to his knees on the floor. 

“I can take whatever you want Buck. I'm not that skinny kid that I used to be,” Steve says. “Don't need to protect me. Not from you.”

“You don't know-” the Asset starts up again.

“Then show me,” Steve interrupts. 

They stare at each other in heated silence for several seconds. Steve's breathing is heavy. 

The Asset takes a cautious step towards Steve, close enough so that his boots knock the fronts of Steve's knees. Steve stares up at him calmly, mouth parted as he all but pants. 

“You like this?” the Asset asks. 

“Not about me, or what I need,” Steve responds. 

The Asset slides his flesh hand into Steve's hair and grabs it in a fist. He feels every strand. “I asked you a question,” the Asset says, voice hovering between demand and uncertainty. 

“Yes,” Steve says in a breathy exhale. 

The Asset watches with renewed attention to detail and tugs on Steve's hair until he's forced to tilt his head back. Steve's neck strains from the angle. 

“What is it you like about this?” the Asset asks, ghost of a cocky demeanour in the smile that almost surfaces on his tight pressed lips. The side twitches but doesn't quite manage someone else's facial gesture. 

“Everyone thought that I was theirs, when I became Captain America,” Steve says, voice stifled as he half scoffs. “Poster boy. Put on a pair of tights and make money for the war. Fight in the war. Do whatever they wanted me to do. But I wasn't theirs. No matter what they got me to do, they couldn't touch me. I was always yours,” Steve replies. He says it so matter of fact, so casually, the Asset nearly misses the confession in the words. 

“Mine?” The Asset can't remember actually having any possessions before. Even his guns aren't his own. Stolen property. That puts a damper on things. Not unlike desecrating the national idol on his knees at Hydra's best assassin's feet. But Steve wants him to. Steve wants him to. 

And he can say no, if he wants to. 

“Yours,” Steve repeats. 

The Asset catches Steve's eyes darting cautiously to his crotch. The Asset glances down at his own erection, tight against the zipper of his pants. The sight of the Asset's cock hard is alien to him, his body acting of its own accord. When the Asset glances away Steve's attention follows. 

He tightens his grip on Steve's hair and jerks backward, causing Steve to lose balance a little. Steve shifts off his knees and follows the direction the Asset is pulling in. He lays down on the apartment floor. 

Very carefully the Asset gets down to his own knees. Every motion is exaggerated in its slowness. Without even thinking he can retreat, not quite committed until the last possible second. He straddles Steve, knees locking onto either side of Steve's hips. 

Experimentally the Asset slides his mental hand up Steve's stomach. He traces it in a line until his hand closes around Steve's neck. The Asset flexes his fingers, watching Steve's trusting eyes. Nervous. Anticipatory?


	6. Chapter 6

There's enough mechanical hard wiring in the Asset's metal hand for him to accurately fire a gun and almost enough to feel as he chokes out his supposed childhood best friend. Their eyes are locked as the Asset tightens his grip on Steve's neck. A faint flush colours Steve's cheeks, but he doesn't resist or make any signal that they need to stop. 

“What do you mean you're mine?” the Asset asks without letting up. 

Steve opens his mouth, to which The Asset only digs his fingers deeper into the soft flesh at Steve's throat. Steve lets out a strangled gasp in lieu of a response. 

The Asset's eyebrows furrow in bemusement, completely disjointed from the ever increasing pressure on Steve's neck. 

“I don't have anything,” the Asset says conversationally. “Property.” He bites his bottom lip, letting it slide out between his teeth as he mulls aloud. “does not have property.”

“You,” Steve coughs out. His eyes close in a winced sigh. “You're not...” The red of the newly forming bruise has crept up from his throat to his face.

The Asset's fingers release, jerking backwards like a metal claw in a rigged toy game at an arcade. “Not what?” 

“You're not property Buck,” Steve says, voice strained and low. 

“Must be someone's,” the Asset mutters, fingers already clamping down onto Steve's neck again. They settle back into the same forming bruise. “Don't feel like me.” He laughs and it's a hollow sound. “Don't feel like anyone.” 

The Asset leans forward. His knees shift back and he brings his upper torso down to line up with Steve's. 

“Not quite sure I'm real,” the Asset confesses hesitantly. His metal hand tenses and releases on Steve's neck in a nervous tick. There's something grounding about literally holding his mission's life in his hand. Was it always that way?

Steve doesn't reply, only staring up at the Asset with that sad little smile. He's not as unaffected as his face lets on though. Steve's breathing remains uneven, almost ragged. The Asset notes that his heart rate has increased. The Asset can also feel that Steve is hard, erection pressing into his thigh. 

“But everything else feels real,” the Asset says with a frown. “Just not me.” He bites his bottom lip again, marking new grooves into his own skin. Imprints of flustered indecision. “Not me.” 

“It's okay,” Steve says in a strained voice. Chest to chest, with the Asset on top and Steve on his back on the apartment floor, they are so close that the Asset can feel the pressure of Steve's words against his face in every clipped exhale. 

“You're real,” Steve assures him. He winces as he clears his throat. “You're in charge.”

The Asset removes his metal hand from Steve's throat to trace the firm bone of Steve's jaw. 

Steve gasps softly at his first full inhale, the oxygen flooding his brain. He blinks up at the Asset.

“All yours,” Steve promises in a shaky voice spurred on by the way that the Asset is staring at him consideringly. “Whatever you want.” 

The Asset brings his lips closer to Steve's, less than an inch keeping them from a kiss. The muscle memory of making out, sucking on someone else's lower lip, licking into their mouth, haunts him. The Asset has done this before, but every memory is the unfulfilled end to an act he isn't quite interested in completing. 

The Asset angles his head past Steve's lips, bringing it down to trace his tongue along the bruise he'd made on Steve's neck. He can taste Steve's sweat while he laves at the little marks from his metal fingers. Steve squirms beneath him. The Asset bites down. 

Steve's whole body jerks into the bite and he exhales with a pained gasp. 

The Asset glances up to scan Steve's face without letting go, teeth sinking past the initial resistance of the tender bruise. 

“S'fine,” Steve says in a strained whisper. “No blood though,” he reminds. 

The Asset lets go with his teeth, bringing his face back up to make eye contact with Steve. The ghost of a cocky grin tugs on his wide lips. “I know what I'm doing,” the Asset says. 

After the initial awkwardness wears off he moves with a feral liquidity, mapping out Steve's flesh like he's taking stock. Quick, efficient, and dangerous. The Asset lets his metal and flesh hands wander. There's something heady about being able to touch. A sordid kind of pleasure in pinning Steve down to the ground, electrical excitement jumping through his cyborg veins. He leaves a trail of bruises down Steve's neck and onto his chest, all without breaking the surface of Steve's skin. 

The Asset shoves Steve's shirt off, smirking when the sleeves get stuck on Steve's hands. “Leave it there,” he says. Steve drops his hands above his head and obeys. The Asset ties the caught sleeves together in a loose knot, anchoring Steve's arms in place. 

“Still feel not real?” Steve asks gently as the Asset trails his fingers down Steve's bared stomach.

“Yeah,” the Asset says. He shifts his knees back and sits up as he returns to straddling Steve. 

“But you are,” The Asset murmurs. He brings his teeth down to the indents at Steve's hips and explores them with his tongue. “You're real,” he whispers and bites down. 

Steve jerks again at the unusual feel of teeth digging into his hipbone. The Asset brings a hand back to Steve's neck and holds him down by it. 

After leaving a litany of marks on Steve's lower stomach the Asset fingers move down to fiddle with the zipper of Steve's pants. “You don't have to,” Steve says hurriedly. 

The Asset pauses. “Do... do you want me to?” his voice is flat. Gone. Somewhere else. It's like someone hit a switch. 

“You don't have to,” Steve repeats. He struggles with his arms, still tied above his head. Even in a loose knot the shirt doesn't come away quickly. “How about we stop now.”

“Stop?” The Asset tenses. 

“Yes. We're done. Stop,” Steve says. 

The Asset clears his throat and stares at Steve. He shifts his weight but doesn't move to let Steve up. 

“Buck, I said stop,” Steve says carefully. 

The Asset is painfully aware of his own erection, inches from his fingers on Steve's zipper. Steve. Splayed out beneath him. In under two seconds the Asset could secure him. And then...

The Asset eases off of Steve, jaw and fists clenched as he forces himself not to continue the thought. He retreats to the wall by the kitchen, never letting Steve out of his sight by walking backwards. 

“Thank you,” Steve says.

The Asset doesn't say anything, merely watches. 

Steve struggles with his shirt. It takes a minute to untie the knot on his own, slipping the shirt off and over his arms. Steve puts it back on as he stands, covering up his newly bruised chest. The shirt doesn't hide the marks on his neck, which already stand out flushed and red like a collar in the imprint of a person's hand. 

“You okay?” Steve asks as he tugs his shirt down to straighten it. His left hand twitches and he shoves it in his back pocket, avoiding touching his crotch perhaps. 

The Asset shrugs. 

“I'm going to make some tea. If you want you can supervise,” Steve says.

He waits for a terse nod from the Asset before approaching. 

When he gets to the kitchen Steve stays as far away from the Asset as physically possible, leaving the main wall to him. He fills the kettle up with water. 

The Asset takes a step around the wall to watch. 

“Black tea fine?” Steve asks. 

Another nod. 

“I want you to tell me you're okay. Or if I did anything wrong, what it was,” Steve says. 

The Asset frowns at him, eyebrows furrowing. “I'm okay,” he mutters.

The kettle whistles and Steve pours the tea into two mugs, which he brings over to the little table in the kitchen. Steve puts a little coconut milk in his and swirls it, watching the tea turn a toffee colour. 

The Asset follows him, sitting down slowly. He angles his chair so that he can get out of it in a second's notice. He keeps his back to the wall. There's a window he can't watch, but it's in Steve's line of vision. He frowns at the slip up, at assuming Steve would cover the window. Should cover the window. The Asset shifts his chair again, moving it further away from the table, and minimizing his blind spot. 

“Did anything go wrong? Or was there something that happened that you didn't like?” Steve asks. 

The Asset fiddles with his mug of tea. He glances at Steve over the rim of it. “I...I don't,” he frowns and shakes his head. “I'm going to hurt you.” 

“I trust you,” Steve replies calmly. “But if you want to talk about being worried that you'll hurt me, we can.” 

“No,” the Asset murmurs around his tea. “I don't want to talk about it.” He slips the tea bag out and lays it on an empty plate. “Not right now, anyways,” he adds after a moment. 

“Okay,” Steve says. “You don't have to if you don't want to. Just stay for the tea.” He offers up another of those sad little smiles. 

They sip in silence for several minutes. The emptiness of the apartment is like a physical force, constricting and heavy. 

“I enjoyed it, by the way,” Steve says casually. “So if you want to do it again, I'd like that.” The Asset notices that his breathing has returned to a forced rhythm. Three in. Three out. 

“Are you coming on to me Captain America?” he replies snidely, someone else's sarcastic voice possessing his vocal chords. The words come out and they don't feel like his, but he lets them anyways. He doesn't know what his own words would feel like. Hard to keep track of a sense of self as he's consistently shifting between emotions. Getting dragged under beneath them. Drowning in feelings he can't even try and name.

“Yes,” Steve replies with a grin. 

“You do know that I'm not him,” the Asset says. 

Steve's jaw tenses. His eyes flick to the side. 

“Even if I am, just say I am,” the Asset continues, hand sliding back to reach for his gun out of habit. If Steve notices, he doesn't let on. Doesn't show any sign of fear, let alone mistrust. “You're not getting him back. No matter what you let me do to you.”

Steve's grin is still frozen on his face and it looks painful now. “I understand,” he says softly. 

The Asset stands up, backing into the wall. “Sure,” he says. The Asset tucks his chair in. “Thanks, for the tea,” he adds flatly. 

“Anytime,” Steve replies, voice hoarse. 

The Asset nods and leaves, only glancing back at Steve once while he does so.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I like torturing myself with feelings and winding plots. There's an easter egg in here for one of my regular readers that I still can't believe actually reads my stuff!

Steve starts slow, hand sliding into his loose pyjama bottoms. He hadn't bothered with underwear when he went to bed last night and without the obstruction his hand slips easily around his cock. 

Steve palms himself slowly. 

When he's hard, soon, the drag of his dry skin against his dick will pull and maybe be a little uncomfortable. Maybe there will be a little pleasant friction. He tightens his grip. Imagining jacking off isn't quite capable of getting Steve hard, even while he does it, but it's not long before his thoughts wander and a certain fugitive assassin comes to the front of his mind. 

When Steve thinks about Bucky it's as he is so often now, metal hand cloaked in blood and the spray flecked across his face like rain. Bucky in his Winter Soldier gear, that might as well be a dominatrix outfit as far as Steve's dick is concerned, _all those straps_ , and he doesn't bother to take it off when he fucks Steve. 

Steve's hand clamps around his dick and he lets out a little keening noise. He bites his bottom lip as he forces himself to slow down. 

Steve grabs the lube on his bedside table. The container declares in bold letters that it doesn't test on animals, is organic, and tastes like raspberry. Good enough to eat. And fuck Steve's distracted by the mental flash of using it for intimate dessert purposes and he has a hard time slicking himself up properly without getting it on the bed.

Steve's hand closes around his dick again, moving ever so slowly this time. He teasingly trails his fist up and down and tries to focus on the glide of his fingers. They're barely perceptible if he widens his grip. It might be a very long while before he gets to try out this fantasy in person - _if_ he gets to try out this fantasy in person - and it's got to last. It's got to be enough. 

Bucky would open Steve up with his metal hand first. Lube would probably be a good idea, but in Steve's mind Bucky goes without for now and Steve can feel that mechanical coldness sting his nerves all on its own. He can't quite imagine the exact sensation unfortunately. He's never put something frigid up his ass before. He could put a dildo in the freezer later, but it won't be cold the same way, and oh his face is definitely heating up as Steve imagines himself walking into an adult store and asking for a metal sex toy. Would it be worse if someone recognized Captain America or if Bucky was tracking him as part of his 'job' and saw him do it? Steve moans and with his free hand slips a lubed finger up his ass. 

Steve cants his hips up, rocking his dick into his own fist as he gets comfortable with the stretch of his hole. He shoves his finger in all the way and pulls it out, gasping at the slick sound of his palm slapping against the base of his ass. 

Bucky would move up to two fingers. Steve shifts on his side for easier access and mimics the fantasy, sliding a second finger in.

“I'm not him, you know,” the Bucky in Steve's fantasy says in a facsimile of the day before, but infinitely better now that this Bucky thrusts his fingers into Steve to punctuate his harsh words. 

“You're different,” Steve imagines he would reply, if he were being honest. “You're not him, but you're also not not him.”

Bucky would stare at him consideringly. “Maybe,” he concedes in Steve's masturbatory fantasy. “Maybe,” he repeats softly, the gravelly scrape of his voice intimately familiar and Steve gasps as he comes. 

Steve falls back on his bed breathing heavily and palms himself as he comes down from the rush of orgasm. He closes his eyes tight and for just a few more seconds he can imagine that Bucky's there with him.

\- 

Steve left a note on his kitchen table and scheduled an appointment with Bucky in his calendar for the day. It's a lot to hope for that Bucky will see it between the time Steve leaves his apartment, at nine, and the appointment itself, at four. 

As much as Steve thinks they're moving forward - hopes they're moving forward - this situation with Bucky is volatile and he's going in blind. Steve's read the details, but he doesn't actually know what Hydra did to Bucky's head. No one really knows the extent of the damage. Hydra probably didn't have psychologists on the payroll. Bucky must have functioned well enough to go out and kill and that's all they really wanted. Steve feels himself crumpling his napkin in his hand and can't quite bring himself to stop. 

Bucky walks into the coffee shop two minutes early and sits at the chair across from Steve without speaking. He's wearing a nondescript black jacket and his hair is pulled back from his face in a short ponytail. Bucky's still got the same puppy dog pout to his lips and the expressive eyes that Steve remembers from before he went under the ice himself and it's jarring. 

“Hi,” Steve forces himself to say. 

Bucky tilts his head in a nod. 

“I didn't order yet because I didn't know what you'd want. Thought you'd like to choose,” Steve says and the smile on his face feels tight like the breath rattling around in his lungs, but he can manage. He calculates his next inhale. One. Two. Three. He prolongs the exhale to the count of four. 

“Must we?” Bucky asks in a clipped voice. 

Steve's eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“You said you understood, that I wasn't him, but here we are,” Bucky says, noticeably without gesturing or moving his eyes. His gaze remains locked on Steve. 

“It's just coffee. Or tea. Whatever you pick.” One. Two. Three. Wait. 

Bucky leans across the table and he says in a low voice, “don't make me explain myself. You don't invite assassins for coffee dates.”

Steve can't let it go. “and you don't accept coffee dates with your target. You do it quick and dirty. You do it and it's done.”

Confusion flashes across Bucky's face. The emotion isn't there for long enough to give any clues as to what he's confused about, or what it means, but Steve catches it all the same. He's struck a nerve. Or a minefield. 

Steve crosses his arms and stares with a cocky grin that makes his stomach queasy, but he won't back down. “So it seems we're both not quite fitting into our assigned roles,” Steve says. 

Bucky leans back and returns to his seat, the prolonged threat useless if he isn't going to act on it. “You're reckless,” he states. 

“Considering the circumstances, so are you,” Steve says back, and it doesn't even matter what he's saying anymore, but only that there are words coming out of his mouth and Bucky's responding to them. Bucky, who he never thought he'd see again. Bucky, who means everything. 

“Look,” Steve says, clasping his hands together on the table. “Whoever you want me to think you are, whatever happened yesterday, I liked it, and I want to continue.” How easy being brash comes to him again, but this time Bucky's not quite there to hold him back or step in the way. He doesn't exactly know what Hydra's programmed his best friend to do.

Bucky stares at him, or someone else with his face does anyways. He's right to say that he's not really Bucky - or all the time anyways. The confusion on the other man's face is back and he's warring so visibly with it Steve can feel a real physical pain in his chest. He holds himself back from reaching out and dragging Bucky into a hug. 

“The Asset,” Bucky finally says. 

“What?”

“You said 'whoever you want me to think you are.' That's who I am.” Bucky firms his face up as he speaks and fakes some semblance of control. 

Steve clears his throat. He can't escape the scratchy sensation crawling up the inside of his skin. The logical part of his brain wants to accept this thing his friend has shared and Bucky's identity - except that's exactly it. He's asking to not be Bucky. He's asking for Steve to recognize him as someone else. The rest of Steve is screaming that he can't do it. That if he does, Bucky really did die when he fell off the train. 

Steve closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. He exhales very slowly. “Is that what you would prefer I call you?” 

“It's who I am,” he hears Bucky reply flatly. 

Not Bucky though. 

“I think... there's something. But I'm not him,” he goes on. “We're not doing ourselves any favours pretending I am. Either of us.”

Except Steve wants to live in that fantasy as long as he can. He's so close, it's almost real. It could be real if he keeps pushing. Bucky might remember. 

Steve forces himself to open his eyes and look at the other man. “If you say you're the Asset, that's who you are,” he says with a small smile. 

“And what about our arrangement?” Bucky, no, the Asset, asks. 

“Whoever you are, you didn't have a choice about what you did, and if I've got the resources to burn to make sure that you stay comfortable while you figure stuff out I'm happy to share,” Steve says. He can think of Bucky, no, this person, as just a victim with some considerable skills he'd never consented to use. 

“What about the other parts?” the Asset asks.

“I understand completely if you don't want to continue and I'm sorry if -” Steve starts. 

“That's not it,” the Asset cuts him off. He frowns. “I don't know what I want. I don't know who I am.” He glances down at his own hands. “But I know I don't want to slide into someone else's life and take it over.”

“You're not just sliding into his life,” Steve says. He runs his hand through his hair and for the first time feels almost nervous. An emotion that surely should have come up earlier in his encounters with Hydra's most precious assassin, but he isn't about to dwell on that. “We never actually did anything like that.”

“Oh, did you not want to?” the Asset asks, visibly confused. He wears it so plainly when Steve is looking properly and not getting caught in the details of Bucky he thinks he sees. Now it's the way the Asset's face looks on the precipice of shattering. 

“No, I did.”

“He didn't?”

“Never asked.” Steve shrugs. “He was always dating some girl and when I thought he might finally be noticing me, after they injected me with the serum, we got shipped off, and I didn't want to tell him during the war. I wanted it to be special.” It goes unspoken that there hadn't been the time after to tell Bucky. That Steve had thought the Asset was his 'after.'

The Asset drums his fingers on the table. It's an unusual tick for someone trained to be invisible. 

“Would have been special, no matter what, since you loved him,” the Asset says. He tilts his head to the side. “So I figure.” 

“Well I can't go back on it now,” Steve says. 

The Asset visibly flinches at the words, pupils darting across Steve's face a little too warily. It's a very small tell. The concern lingers in his posture, tangling up in his shoulders, but he doesn't mention it. Steve doesn't comment. 

“How about we keep the original arrangement intact, you still keep an eye on me, and we'll both take some time to think about what we want in regards to each other?” Steve says. There are so many other questions that burn him, that he just wants to blurt out, but he manages to hold them back. He's playing with explosives and he can be cautious. For a little while. “Sound okay?”

“Yes,” the Asset replies.


	8. Chapter 8

“He said yes?” Natasha asks in her usual clipped tone. She watches Steve from across the table in his apartment with the same distant control Bucky, no, definitely the Asset, has when he's not tripped up by confusion. When he's unadulterated. Steve notes the similarity but he isn't quite surprised. It's partially the reason he came to Natasha. The rest is she's likely the smartest person that he knows. 

“Yeah. So I'm still paying for his rent and everything else and we're both taking some time to figure out what we want,” Steve says softly. 

“So basically you're a sugar daddy without the perks,” Natasha says, and the statement is so unlike her, but she's watching Steve for his reaction. The Black Widow is a calculating shape-shifter and saying things she doesn't mean to figure something else out isn't the least of it. 

“Or a friend, helping out another friend,” Steve replies calmly. 

“Except he says he's not Bucky, which means he's not your friend,” Natasha says. 

“Then for now, until we decide on a mutually agreeable relationship, he's just a guy that I'm helping out of the goodness of my heart.” 

It's not true, but Natasha doesn't press on the wound. “And what do you think you'd want from him?” she asks instead. 

“Honestly?” Steve's starts smiling in spite of himself and his whole face warms with an overwhelming fondness. Natasha nods. “Bucky.”

“But you can't have that,” she says. 

“But I can't have that,” he repeats and it's physically painful to say the words out loud. 

Steve's gaze flicks to the window, past the rooftops that his Stark Tower apartment view overlooks. Everything seems so small from up here. So fragile. He imagines the Asset lurking in a bush somewhere, far below. Watching. Waiting. Steve clears his throat. 

“So what do you want from him, the Asset?” Natasha asks. 

“I don't know,” Steve admits and shakes his head. “I guess I'm glad that I suggested we take some time to figure that out. I know what I'd want from Bucky, but I haven't ever considered before what I'd want from the Asset.” It's still a mental obstacle to think of them as two separate people. 

“You're not worried that starting up something with the Asset would be a bad idea?” Natasha's voice doesn't indicate the moral judgement that would usually accompany those words. Her tone comes out flat as if she'd said a statement rather than asked a question. Something like the sky is blue. Steve Rogers is in love with his best friend. 

“I'm not pretending it's a good idea,” Steve says. He pauses and shrugs to cover up the discomfort that flushes over him when he realizes that he's aroused. The Asset isn't a villain, he's Hydra's victim, but he's also done some terrible things. He could quite literally kill Steve. He was supposed to. That hyper-thin line between fearing for his own safety and wanting to be destroyed should be terrifying, but it's not. 

“Even if whatever I decide I want from him is a bad idea, I still want to do it,” Steve admits, even if he's not quite sure what _it_ is. Yet.

Natasha cracks a smile. “You really aren't the goodie two shoes everyone pegs Captain America for.” 

“Did you think I was?” Steve glances back at her with the ghost of a smirk. 

“No,” Natasha says and her empty composure is gone with the simple quirk of her lip. “But from the way Tony carries on about how sexually naive you are, it's nice to be reminded otherwise.” 

Steve laughs and even as his shoulders are tense, and his throat is tight, all that doesn't matter. With Natasha he can forget a little. 

Natasha's eyes flick and Steve can trace a thought, lightning fast, across her face. 

“What?” Steve says.

“Tony's got that event at Stark Tower on Friday night,” Natasha begins to explain. 

“Oh right, the charity thing,” Steve says. 

“The one all of the Avengers are expected to attend. With dates, Tony emphasized,” Natasha goes on.

“Yeah, that was probably a thinly veiled attempt to get me back into the dating game,” Steve says dismissively. “I checked no on the RSVP letter Pepper sent in the mail.” 

“I'm sure Pepper could be convinced to overlook that if you wanted to take a plus one,” Natasha says with a smug smile. “The charity event would make a nice first date.”

“You mean a heavily scrutinized first date that's bound to end up in some newspaper." Steven shakes his head. "Even if someone wanted to go through that, who would I want to...” He pauses and his eyebrows arch. “Bucky? I mean, the Asset?” Steve's tongue darts out across his lower lip. “I haven't even had an official talk with Fury about him being in town.”

“Everyone already knows,” Natasha brushes Steve off. 

“What? How?” Steve really shouldn't be surprised. He wouldn't be if he'd stopped to think about it, (how long could he really keep a wanted assassin a secret for?), but he'd always figured the first time someone told him the Asset was in town, it would be after they'd apprehended him. Or tried to. 

“Okay, well not everyone,” Natasha admits. “Thor and Tony don't.”

“Thor's been out of town,” Steve points out. Which means she's been keeping it a secret from Tony for some reason. “If, big if,” Steve says emphatically. “I wanted to bring him to Tony's charity event I could, but why would I do that?”

“Like I said, it would make a nice first date. It would be very classy. And you'd get the whole dating experience, which is designed to help you two figure out if you like each other,” Natasha says. 

“I doubt we'd be able to have the whole 'getting to know you experience' while under the intense scrutiny of every Avenger and however many agents Fury demands be there,” Steve adds, unconvinced. 

“Yes, but you also won't have the whole, 'brainwashed James Buchanon Barnes kills childhood best friend and national icon' experience,” Natasha says pointedly. 

Steve shakes his head. “That's not going to happen.”

“I'm not telling you not to date him, but it's a possibility, and having backup when he's around would be a good idea.”

Steve almost laughs out loud at the idea because the Asset thinks he needs to be the one protecting Steve. Instead of laughing he clears his throat awkwardly. “It's not going to happen. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it already.” It goes unsaid that there were countless opportunities, but the notion is heavy in the air between them. 

Natasha's eyes tighten ever so slightly around the edges, but the rest of her face remains flat and empty. “How about to avoid giving Fury a heart attack you have your public debut with him at the Stark charity event,” she says. 

Steve doesn't know if he can convince the Asset to go to such a high profile event. There will be armed security guards. It'll probably be terrible for his state of mind. “I'll think about it,” Steve says. “That's the best I can say right now.” 

Natasha nods. “Thank you.”

“How long have you been planning Captain America going public with his boyfriend?” Steve says. He half laughs. “Do you have some kind of bet on this?” 

Natasha just leans back in her chair and smiles in lieu of a response.

-

Steve didn't bother with pyjama bottoms tonight. All day his mind has been tossing and turning over asking the Asset to the Stark charity event. 

Will the Asset be able to handle it? 

Does Steve even want the Asset there? 

How should he ask him? 

The early warning of a stress headache presses into the tight muscles of Steve's forehead. Somewhere, probably from Tony (fuck don't think about Tony right now!), he'd heard that orgasms could help with headaches. Well, they can't hurt. Steve pulls off his shirt and now he's completely naked. 

Steve walks backward until his calves hit the bed. He lets himself go and falls onto it with a faint thud. Steve shifts his shoulders and gets comfortable on the covers. There are no lights on and the bedroom is dark, but he closes his eyes anyways as his hand closes around his dick. With his sense of sight gone he can imagine that he isn't here alone. 

Steve's mind wanders while he palms his dick. He can barely feel the smooth glide of his fist. The sensation won't be enough to get him off anyways. Steve will go slowly until he lands on the right mental imagery. 

Bucky, just as he'd looked when he wore his uniform for the first time. Steve's breath stutters and he brushes past the thought quickly. 

Better to go with the Asset. 

Steve brings up the first time that he had seen the Asset, wearing a face mask and goggles like he'd stepped right out of a terrifying post apocalyptic future. Steve's gut clenches and he increases the speed of his hand fisting his dick. 

In Steve's mind the Asset stalks towards him. 

The fantasy narrows. 

It's just the two of them, on the street, behind the wrecked car. It's a public place, and the exhibitionism of it all is part of the excitement, but no one else really matters. 

The Asset pulls a gun out of the holster on his hip and aims it at Steve. Point blank, he'd never miss. Even at a distance, the Asset wouldn't miss anyways. He's an assassin and this looks like an execution. Steve's pulse hammers violently in his ears. 

“On your knees,” the Asset in Steve's fantasy orders, words muffled by his mask. Through the mask Steve can hear the familiar sound of Bucky's voice, but it's obscured. Darker. Dangerous in a way that it never was before. There are remnants of Steve's friend in the Asset, but they're only bits of shrapnel, dug beneath his skin. Imperfections on an otherwise perfect weapon. Scuffs, really, because those bits of Bucky don't seem to drag the Asset down at all. 

Steve imagines that he would obey and he thinks about dropping to his knees. No matter how slow he would go, the concrete would be hard and landing on his knees would hurt. Falling might even scrape Steve's skin through his thin pants. Steve tries to think about what he'd say back, but his brain is completely locked. 

Back in his bedroom, Steve mindlessly jerks at his dick while he lays sprawled on his back, panting into the heavy silence. 

“Hands in front of you. Hold them,” he imagines the Asset would say. 

In the fantasy Steve obeys and clasps his own hands in front of him. 

The Asset would take a step towards Steve. With Steve on his knees, the Asset's crotch is practically in his face. 

The Asset shoves the barrel of his gun into the soft skin of Steve's throat. 

On Steve's bed the friction of his dry hand is painful. He clears his throat and keeps on pumping his wrist, gasping in time to the slapping sound of skin against skin. 

In Steve's mind the Asset uses his free hand to undo the zipper on his own pants. He presses the gun deeper into Steve's neck in silent warning, _don't move_ , while he shimmies the pants and his underwear down his hips. The Asset's dick bobs up, thick and heavy right in Steve's face. 

The Asset draws a line with the gun around Steve's neck, tracing it until the barrel rests on Steve's spine and he uses it to tap Steve's head forward. 

“Go on, Captain America,” the Asset says in a snide voice, not unlike Bucky's grating sarcasm when he used to use the honorific title. 

That's all it takes. Steve gasps and he orgasms. 

Every press of Steve's hand on his dick is too painful, but he keeps jerking himself off in a frantic rhythm while he comes down. He only lets go when eventually there's more sensation in his tired wrist than his dick. 

Steve settles back onto his bed, hands falling limp at his sides. He turns his head towards the window, where the moonlight should be streaming in through, but for just a little longer he keeps his eyes closed. For just a little longer he lets himself pretend. 

There's a creak in the room. Steve's eyes snap open. 

It takes Steve several seconds to adjust to the darkness as he peers cautiously around the room. He can see a dark shape in the corner, which could just as easily be an intruder as a coat on his chair. 

Steve rubs his eyes. When he opens them again his gaze falls on the unmistakeable glint of a metal arm. 

Steve and the Asset lock eyes in the darkness and Steve finds himself at a loss for words. He can't even latch onto a feeling. Is he angry at the Asset for just coming in? Is he turned on that the guy he was jerking off to was there to see the finale? Wait, how long has the Asset actually been in the room for? 

Modesty's a moot point, but Steve sits up and pulls the bed cover around his naked body. At the very least, he can hide any inappropriate erections he's bound to have during the course of this conversation. With the Asset completely clothed and casually leaning against the wall, and Steve off guard and vulnerable, the scenario is eerily similar to Steve's masturbatory fantasies.

“Hi,” Steve says very carefully. His lips purse in a thin line as he mentally fumbles with navigating the situation. If he decides that he wants the Asset to fuck him after all, he doesn't want to ruin the chance of that by shaming the Asset's sexual exploration now. On the other hand, what the fuck? 

“Hello,” the Asset replies. It's hard to make out his face in the dark, but Steve can see his eyebrows drawn up in confusion. 

“Why are you here?” Steve asks slowly. 

“I was watching you.” The emptiness of the Asset's voice, that void that takes the place of a person when they've completely checked out of themselves, makes Steve's gut clench. The Asset should be absolutely terrifying, and oh he is, but that's also absolutely arousing. 

Steve shifts uncomfortably on the bed and nods. “You don't usually come into my apartment when you're watching me,” he comments. 

“Right.”

“Why'd you come in this time?” Steve prompts. His naked upper torso is getting chilly, but he refuses to bundle the bed cover around himself like a shawl. Getting his shirt would ruin the spell between them, so Steve sits, trying not to visualize how stiff his nipples must be. 

“I heard a sound,” the Asset says. 

Steve's always assumed that the Asset watches from the ground or another building close by, which means he's either wrong or the Asset has bugged his apartment. Steve struggles to keep his face empty. 

“Were you worried?” Steve prompts again. 

“Yes.”

“Well,” Steve says with an exasperated half laugh. “No need to be. Nothing's wrong. I was just masturbating.”

“I can see that,” the Asset responds, and all the humour is drained from the situation by the coldness on his face. This is probably the best test anyone could have devised for Steve's refractory period. He shifts again on the bed. 

“So why did you stay when you realized that that's what I was doing?” Steve asks. 

“I was curious.”

Steve bites his bottom lip and resists offering to placate the Asset's curiosity with a more personal show. Somehow he manages to say instead, “I'm glad you're curious about this, but we're still figuring out what we want from each other. Until we have a conversation about that I'd rather you didn't watch me jerk off.”

The Asset nods. The ghost of a smile seems to quiver on his lip, but it's as if it's there, unbeknownst to him. “I'll leave you to it then,” he says, turning to go. 

“Well, I finished,” Steve says without thinking. 

The Asset pauses. “Come on, you're Captain America,” he says, and oh that familiar snide is there and the sound goes right to Steve's dick. “I'm sure they didn't design you to only go once.” The voice isn't right, too hollow now, but the teasing, the roll of his tongue over particular words, that's all Bucky.

Steve stares at the Asset for several seconds. 

“And if you want me to go," the Asset says, softer this time. "I'll go.” 

“What?” Steve says. Surely he's misheard. Is the Asset offering to stay the night?

“To Stark's charity event. I heard you and the Widow talking,” the Asset clarifies. Bugs. He's definitely bugged the apartment. Steve can't even find it in himself to be annoyed. 

“Yes," Steve answers immediately. He hadn't known what he would say before that moment, but the word comes out of its own accord. "Yes, I would,” he repeats. 

“Pick you up at eight,” the Asset replies, and before Steve can change his mind the Asset is gone, disappearing into the night and leaving Steve alone to his fantasies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in betaing, or helping me toss ideas around, and is over 18, get in touch with me :)
> 
> Also Steve's masturbatory fantasies are really fun to explore.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened. Things are more on track so we'll see if my writing gets back on track. :) On the plus side I'm coming back with a lot more real life bdsm experiences so this will probably get pretty interesting.

Steve wants to regret saying yes. He wants to feel that it's wrong for Hydra's pet assassin to be his date to a charity event. Charity? The Asset wouldn't even kill someone charitably. He wouldn't do it quick and dirty or fast and painless. He probably doesn't even care enough to have an opinion on the matter and oh that thought should be alarming. Steve wants it to alarm him. He really really does. 

But it doesn't.

“Is it that he's Bucky?” Bruce says while they're getting fitted for new suits to wear to the charity event. Tony still doesn't know, but Natasha was right; pretty much everyone else does. 

Natasha's watching them from her chair, lounging with her feet up. Her posture doesn't fool Steve. He recognizes the familiar way that her eyes seek out the exits and linger on customers in the store. If she's still Natasha, after whatever she went through, shouldn't that give him hope that the Asset might be Bucky again one day? 

“It was,” Steve admits. 

Clint flops into the chair next to Natasha. They don't say anything, but Steve's certain that they don't need words to hold a conversation. 

“He refers to himself as the Asset,” Steve says slowly. 

There's a silence between them all for several heavy seconds. Bruce breaks it, asking, “is that what we're supposed to call him?”

“I don't know,” Steve admits. “Hadn't thought about it.” There are so many variables Steve hasn't even considered. 

“You better give the newspapers a name to use or they'll get creative,” Natasha says calmly. Her lip quirks up. “Captain America comes out to charity event with date. He likes stars, stripes,” the quirk widens into a smirk, “whips, and chains.”

Steve's cheeks warm as he imagines the Asset from his latest masturbatory fantasy, clothed in head to toe post-apocalyptic bondage gear, face completely concealed. The things he's dying to do with the Asset's metal arm, not in spite of the violence permanently etched into it, but _because_ of it. 

“He isn't going to dress like that,” Steve says quickly and glances away. He has no idea how the Asset will dress. Does Steve need to take him shopping for a suit? Will he agree to wear gloves? Should he?

The humour drains out of the room when Bruce gently says, “you should give the press a name, so they don't go looking for one.” 

“Good idea,” Natasha says, and she's already discussing tactics to ensure that the Asset's name doesn't get leaked. Steve's not listening anymore. There's literally nothing the press could find that wouldn't be a national disaster. He has no idea how the other avengers aren't freaking out and telling him how awful an idea this is. 

It wouldn't matter, he already knows. 

Steve wants to regret saying yes. He wants to so badly, but he can't even come close to the feeling. Whether his date is Bucky or the Asset, Steve could never not want him. 

The only thing Steve regrets is that he didn't know the Asset when he first got into bdsm. If he did, Steve would have been giving his control up to to the Asset all along. By the time the thought smolders away Steve's finally got his answer. 

-

After sweeping his apartment twice Steve still can't find the bugs that he knows are there. The Asset heard his entire conversation with Natasha. He heard Steve masturbating. Who knows what else he's listened in on? Steve mentally tries to run through every embarrassing moment he's had in his apartment since the Asset came back into his life and cringes. 

He's about to call Natasha, ask her to come with Clint and check for surveillance equipment, when he pauses. They've always known the Asset was good. He's a ghost. But what's the limit? At some point Fury or another person will surely say, “enough is enough, the Asset is too dangerous to be allowed to run lose in New York City just because Steve Rogers has a crush on him.”

Steve puts his phone down hesitantly. 

They can't lock the Asset up. Steve can't let the Asset just do what he wants either. The wants and desires of an assassin may be a mystery to Steve, but he's not optimistic. The longer Steve thinks about being backed into a corner, the extreme difficulty of the situation that he's in, the harder it becomes to ignore his growing erection. 

Modesty might have stopped him before, but what's the point if the Asset's heard everything already? The Asset's even seen everything already. He probably got a perfect visual of Steve blissed out and panting on his bed, pounding his cock into his hand, and orgasming to a fuck or die fantasy. Maybe he doesn't know that last bit (Steve can't quite recall how vocal he gets), but if they continue in this relationship, he eventually will. Maybe they'll even get to play it out. Steve groans and undoes the button on his jeans. 

Steve spits on his hand and uses the saliva to coat his dick. This time he doesn't need to filter past mental images of Bucky. The Asset is already on his mind. Steve closes his eyes to imagine. 

The Asset's clothed, but not in his assassin gear. Steve hesitates, but allows the fantasy to unfold while he strokes his cock. The Asset's wearing a tuxedo. His hair is back in a tidy bun. He would look right at home at Stark's charity event, even with the dangerous glint of his metal hand peeking past his expensive clothes. The self-assured look to his face isn't Bucky. It's feral, the look of a killer who knows how to blend in with his elite prey. It's the Asset no longer held back by Hydra. No longer plagued by self-doubt. He just _is_. 

“Kiss me,” the Asset in Steve's fantasy demands. Steve works his dick as he imagines the Asset's lips crushing into his own. 

“I know you want me,” the imaginary Asset says as his teeth leave a trail of nips down Steve's jaw. He continues to apply pressure until Steve lets out a whimper. The Asset takes the pained sound as encouragement and only works his teeth in harder. 

“Yes,” Steve gasps out in the fantasy. Probably out loud too. 

“You want me to do whatever I want to you,” the Asset says in a tone that should be soothing, it sounds gentle, but the words detract from that. “Isn't that right?” the Asset asks. Steve feels the fear coiling in his stomach. 

“Whatever you want,” Steve murmurs aloud. 

“And it's me you want, isn't it?” The Asset's laugh is empty. “Not Bucky. Me.”

“Yes, you,” Steve pants. “You.” It's then that Steve orgasms, all too sudden. He reaches climax with his palm clamped around the head of his dick. 

Cum spurts out between Steve's fingers and he chases the pain he couldn't feel from the fantasy by ruining his orgasm. Steve's palm grinds into the head of his penis, sticky cum overloading the intensity, and he gasps with the build up of pleasure-pain. 

When Steve can't take it any more he lets go and slouches back onto the wall with a heaving sigh. 

-

He's going to fuck it up. 

He's going to do something wrong. 

The Asset scans the first floor of Stark Tower. His searching gaze is meant to soothe the frayed edges of his brain, but it only continues to spark and threaten to implode. 

Front door. Clear. 

He's going to say something terrible to Steve. 

Security guard: oblivious. The Asset slips past without difficulty. 

He's going to do something terrible to Steve. 

Bucky would know how to go on a date, the Asset thinks, as he ascends the stairs. Without the elevator he spares himself potential close encounters with strangers. They'd be the sort of encounters that block out his mind until all that's inside is one thought, repeated as a desperate plea. Escape. Do anything to escape. The Asset's not even on the elevator, but the prospect brushes against his conscious mind and it's spiralling. Spinning. Going off in a fish tail, about to crash into a wall. 

The Asset reaches Steve's door, not sure how long he was in the stairwell for. Sweat trickles down his forehead. He's about to knock and stops himself. Switches hands. He knocks with the flesh one. 

Steve opens the door. He's wearing a black suit. Incredibly tight. Any concealed weapon would leave a fold in the fabric. “If you ask nicely, you can pat me down,” Steve greets him with a faint laugh, the Asset's searching gaze obviously too brash.

“Sorry,” the Asset mutters and glances away. 

“I'm just teasing you. You're doing your job,” Steve says gently. After a moment he adds experimentally, “or, I'm flirting with you, since we're on a date.” Steve's eyebrows are raised cautiously when the Asset looks back. 

“Yeah?” the Asset muses. “Never been on a date before.” 

The correction he expects from Steve never comes. “Really?” Steve asks, trying out a casual grin. “Can I help you ease into it?” 

There's a war in the Asset's head, a million possible responses, and he freezes up in the bedlam. He lowers his chin in the barest of nods. 

“As long as you have your partner's consent, which you do,” Steve assures him, “you can act however you want.” He carefully takes the Asset's metal hand and places it on his own hip. “So if you want to take me up on my flirting, feel free.” Steve's watching the Asset for any perceptible change while he speaks. Any fraction of a response that indicates he's made an error. “And if you don't, no problem at all.” Steve guides the Asset's hand to just barely stroke Steve's thigh while he waits. The tips of the Asset's fingers brush over the fabric of Steve's pants again and again. The Asset flexes his metal fingers and Steve's hand over his goes still. 

He can feel Captain America's vulnerable flesh in his grip. He digs his fingers in a little deeper and marvels at the rush that goes through him. “So what does asking nicely to pat you down sound like?” the Asset says. 

“Well, I was just teasing,” Steve admits. “To be honest I like it when you don't ask nice.” He watches the Asset cautiously as he speaks, but his tone doesn't imply caution. 

“Yeah?” the Asset says, noting with detached curiosity that Steve's consent hasn't dimmed the flare of desire in his gut. He's just as interested in exploring the contours of Steve's flesh. Interested in seeing the way Steve's face would break when the Asset pressed too far. How his body would shake with sobs. 

The Asset runs his hand up Steve's stomach and shoves him, back against the wall. “Turn around,” the Asset says. 

Steve obeys quickly, pressing his front to the wall. 

“Legs spread,” the Asset says, bringing to mind any pat downs he's seen before. 

When Steve obeys again the Asset pauses. They're outside of his apartment. Anyone could walk by. A thrill accompanies the thought. “Good,” the Asset grunts and experimentally grabs Steve's ass. 

The Asset can feel Steve's ass tense in his palms. He waits for Steve to settle down again before he squeezes a little harder. Steve lowers his face into the wall and lets out a heavy sigh. After that he returns to his carefully timed breathing. Three in. Three out. “Stop trying to stay in control,” the Asset says and lets a growl fall into his voice. 

“Sorry,” Steve apologizes, voice stumbling over just two little syllables. 

“Is this normally what people do on fist dates?” the Asset asks while he pretends to search Steve's suit. The Asset's mostly just groping him, tight fabric straining over muscles, but he plays along. Explores the feel of the other man's prone body. 

“No,” Steve says in a breathy exhale. 

“Take it you don't mind, Captain America?” the Asset says. 

Steve shakes his head but doesn't say anything. 

The Asset shuffles forward so his hips are pressed against Steve's back, cock settling between Steve's ass cheeks. Steve instantly goes rigid. 

After several seconds of silence the Asset rocks his hips gently into Steve's ass, feeling the slide of his dick trapped in his own pants. Just when Steve starts to push back with his ass the Asset smirks and pulls away. “Come on,” he says, feeling the muscles on his face contort into a smug smile. “We've got a charity event to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am always excited to read your thoughts on character development, plot direction, or whatever :)
> 
> Follow my tumblr account [notyourtargetaudience](http://www.notyourtargetaudience.tumblr.com) for chapter spoilers before they're published on here, writing updates, and info about me.


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